"Guess I picked the wrong week to quit drinking..."

Actually, I picked the right week. And I haven’t quit drinking, not really.

Two months ago (it feels like longer!) I took a week’s annual leave, went to stay with my mother, and on the first night I came down with a stinking cold. It was miserable. The runny, bleeding, nose, the sore throat (exacerbated by being in a smoking household) and occasional difficulty breathing – all that was miserable, but I’d been to the pub that evening and had a couple of pints, and the headache and wakefulness made it the worst night in a long time. I lay awake, and I knew that I could have made it very slightly better by not drinking when I knew I had a bug waiting to pounce. And so I decided not to.

I had been feeling for a while that this was coming – it’s been one of the things that came out of The Artist’s Way for me – and, while I didn’t really know why this, why now, and I did not feel at all ready to have done it, doing it hasn’t been as difficult as I expected. Having once decided that I’d already had my last casual pint, I have been able to leave it there. Thank goodness. I am not sure how I'd have coped if I'd found it difficult.

But then I have always been a social drinker. For most of my adult life I’ve avoided drinking alone (the major exception having been last winter, which was a season out of time, really). I’ve drunk in company, mostly as an inhibition-loosener – to get me talking, mask my shyness – or as a shared ritual: ‘We survived this tedious event together: let us drink to celebrate!’ Since stopping, I have often quoted Airplane! (see title of post) to myself during the sort of day that would usually end in a glass of wine, but that has been enough to allow me to see the funny side, and work around the stress. There was never going to be a right week. I wasn’t ready, but I never am.

My work life and my social life revolve around groups and activities that are traditionally associated with moderate to high alcohol consumption – the trade union movement, choral music, the Church of England – and I have no desire to withdraw from any of those. In all the scenes of my life, I would change only the one detail – the contents of the glass in my hand. And I would like the other characters in the scene not to have noticed the change.

I find that I am much the same person sober as I am drunk. It’s the company that changes my behaviour, not the alcohol. Now that I have sorted out at least the top layer of my social awkwardness, I can plunge straight into the conversation. I take my cue from others and expand to ‘raucous’ and ‘slightly hysterical’ as the evening progresses. Also I tipped over a chair and a glass last night, and I have a significant stutter and a tendency to pontificate. Shall we just say that I do not stand out as the sober one? The main difference (so far) seems to be that I am less likely to start crying over people, and that’s helpful. I’d rather do that alone.

I have been paying attention to the associations, and how and why the habit grew in different ways in different settings. There is a difference between a splash of Cointreau in my coffee while I try to write, and my stepmother-in-law greeting me with ‘White wine?’ as I haul a case through their front door; between a mojito with the book club and an experimental pint at the pub because I like the name or the label.

Thursday night felt like a major milestone: a night at the pub with current and former work colleagues, people I know and like a lot – a night that a few months ago would have meant a succession of pints of beer. There was a similar night at the end of that first week, but I was still getting over the cold then, and not yet sure enough of myself to explain it as any more than ‘being doped up to the eyeballs on paracetamol’. Thursday night was my first night with this particular group as a non-drinker. Thursday night I had cola, then lime-and-soda, then lemonade, and it was fine. The warm, gossipy atmosphere, the setting-the-world-to-rights, the how-is-this-person-and-how-is-that-person, the good news shared and congratulated – they were all still there. I rolled home late and stinking of cigarette smoke, same as every time. It was great.

I have not encountered as much hostility as I feared I might. Mostly, people have raised their eyebrows and let it go. They have not seemed to experience my not drinking as a hint that I think they should do likewise. (Which is fortunate, because I don’t! People who look down their noses at other people because of what those people choose to ingest are my least favourite sort of people and I would hate it if I were thought to be one of them.) They accept that this is something that is working for me at this particular moment. There have been a couple of tricky moments, but it hasn’t been anything like as bad as I expected.

I continue to drink for ritual or ceremonial purposes. In practice, that means Communion, toasts, and beer-with-the-current-project (though it’s been ages since I did that, and I should really go and do it again). I also ignore the alcohol content of food. I’m still not really sure why I’m doing this, but eradicating all traces of alcohol from my diet isn’t the reason.

There are a few things that I still haven’t worked out. Firstly, what to drink instead. I don’t have a particularly sweet tooth, and I am going to get fed up with fizzy drinks very quickly. (Suggestions welcome!) Secondly, how to tell people. Mostly I just don’t, and answer the ‘what are you drinking?’ questions as and when they come up. Thirdly, there is a certain part of my persona that is built around drinking pints of real ale, and how this is not something that is not necessarily expected of someone of my age and gender, and I’m not quite sure how to replace that. I suspect that something equally outrageous will turn up. I’m happy waiting for that.