Well……………………… actually; a short, sharp YES!!!!! + fist pump (I suppose)

Finally, in my 39th (official age for the rest of my life) year, it appears I have grown up, become boring and sensible and will soon be acquiring a pipe, donning the weird, tartan slippers of old men and wearing Fair Isle cardigans.  All while 1. stroking a cat (not necessarily my cat, just a cat), in front of a blazing open fire.  Actually, I have to admit, I have done all of those already, except the pipe.  Cigar yes, but pipe…… oh, and the cat in front of the fire.  And the Fair Isle cardigan. So ignore everything and go back to my original sentence, ‘……acquiring a pipe, donning the weird, tartan slippers of old men and wearing Fair Isle cardigans 1. while stroking a cat (not necessarily my cat, just a cat), in front of a blazing open fire.’

I have well and truly lost the will to drink.  It’s happened.  I think I want to be fit, slim and healthy more than I want to be fuzzy.  Which completely messes with my ‘latter day Joan Collins’ fantasy.  See ‘Reasons why I don’t have kids #1’.   I tried last night, I tried really hard.  I had a glass of red wine with friends in a pizza place, and I expect the sensation I felt was exactly how a junkie feels with the first hit of heroine – OK, maybe that’s a little over-dramatic – but I genuinely felt wasted after three sips.  I straightened out with some food and had a vodka and tonic and a couple of beers more after that at the gig and a bar and this morning, I feel horrible.  Not terrible, just horrible.  Now I remembered the hot flushes in the night, the racing heart, (I expect this is my body trying to expel the demon drink), the inability to sleep and today, the worst dry mouth I think I’ve ever experienced; which feels like a *camel might have marched across my face in the night and cacked in it.

It almost messed with my plan for the gym, and truthfully, I’m a bit apprehensive about going in case I cark it on the machines.  But I will soldier through.  For lovely, ‘running all over the place’ Victor.  What a martyr I am.

So, I think I have to thank Dry January here, for the giant kick up the arse I obviously needed to rein it in a bit, and I will from now on, take it a lot easier and reduce the amount and frequency of the alcohol I have, because I genuinely, honestly and truthfully, feel 80% (current statistic which I predict will rise to 100% in another month) better without it.  Thank you Dry January.

1. Alternative text, “while stroking my p*ssy” – but I gracefully side-stepped the overwhelming urge to write this.  Well done me.

* Weird camel reference for connection with desert, hence dryness, therefore dry mouth.  Although I expect camel cack really isn’t as dry as sand at all and is actually as wet as the cack of any other large animal, e.g. cow, elephant, polar bear.


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