Well i've been living back at the house for some time now. A sobering week for many reasons. For two reasons. There are really only two uses of that word. I haven't had a drink for a week. I haven't advertised it - the resolution will not be televised - but I am obscurely proud of this less than Herculean feat. I was drinking quite a bit before the new year and for quite a bit before that. Not in a way that i thought was damaging, but in a way that was joyless; habitual, dull. I was bored of being drunk, bored of being sat in front of a telly with a loaded glass of Tesco red in my hand night after night. Bored of brushing stained purple teeth and tongue; bored with the clinking embarassment of the recycling. im was building a fortress of solitude out of empty bottles, a crystal cavern where the drunken stuporman can do his sulking.
So I stopped and, disregarding a couple of wobbles, its been pretty easy. The puff has disappeared from my cheeks, the white has returned to my eye (does this mean I'm more likely to get shot?) and money doesn't seem to be flying out of my wallet any more. Just the moths. Like the olden days.*
Less fun is the sobering conversations I've been having with Kelly. She is very clear-eyed on a lot of things and without wishing to go into too much, or any, detail she has given me a lot to think about. She's quite the smarto. And i'm quite a tool.
* or the Beano