As I presumed yesterday, I’m feeling marginally better today, the holiday has melted into the past and, once again, I’m sat here at work like the little capitalist monkey one expects.
I left work yesterday shattered, it had been a busy somewhat frustrating day that at times was comparable to passing a Turkey egg, but after a minor degree of success staving off a looming deadline, I packed up and fucked off home, contentish.
I can’t say going home was much of a spirit-lifter, literally in fact as I’d made the decision not to meet up with anyone in order to have a night off the pop. This meant I was subject to a strict isolated routine; it’s the equivalent, I should imagine, to prison but less entertaining.
Not drinking is fucking boring; I may have mentioned in others blogs that after a glass or two of wine one suddenly finds oneself in company of the self, not even smoking dope can fully resolve the lack of this rather odd phenomenon, it’s not unique to alcohol but getting hold of microdots isn’t easy these and not particularly conducive to a normal life on a day to day basis, especially if one needs to earn money to pay a fucking mortgage and sudden fucking plumbers bills that go through ones account nearly 2 fucking months after the works been fucking cunting done.
I had a bath early in the evening, the only thing to look forward to after this was supper which I subsequently spent a while preparing, it was fucking delicious though let down by the lack of drinkie-poos, I was constantly reminded of the lack of the latter as I was automatically reaching out for a wine glass every 2 minutes or so, only to find nothing but sober inducing air. I drank some water. I made another cup of tea.
After I’d eaten I flopped in front of the telly in an effort to remove my mind from temptation. If I read in bed late at night not drinking isn’t much of a problem but reading in the evening without a glass of wine is nigh on impossible. In fact generally speaking, after 8pm, anything to do with words needs the scaffolding of wine. I can make notes of course but the will diminishes to spontaneously construct vast swathes of prose, though whether or not that adds or subtracts from the ‘quality’ of what transpires isn’t for me to say, or my drunk-self for that matter.
Anyway, I made a few notes on that programme on Saxon / Harvey Goldsmith which will shortly be published in WatchWith Mothers (link to the right of this page).
There are 3 main points of danger when abstaining, one is prior to eating, the second is during or just after a meal and the final one occurs at about 9.30pm, simply because there is enough time to drink a bottle of wine, enjoy the effects without going to bed too late, after 11pm things settle down somewhat, the ‘well I’ve got this far’ staves off the remains of desire. At midnight or so, exhausted, I hit the sack. As soon as my sweet little head hit the pillow, *bang* I was wide-a-fucking wake, I hit radio 4, by 1.20am I was still wide-awake, I switched off Radio 4.
As soon as sleep even nuzzled at my cheek the body would whisper, ‘someone needs to tinkle’, or ‘you can’t breathe can you’, or, ‘that pain in your chest, heart attack’. Then the next phase, Sleep Apnea (though in fairness this can occur after a few glasses of wine too) then at some point following the Tolkienian quest to find the perfect sleeping position one finally snaps off.
Decided I’d cycle in today, I have every intention of gently rewarding myself with wine when I get home. I may even vigorously reward myself too (eh Lads)
Now get along to WWM, it’s time to ROCK…