On holiday recently, I sat in the garden while my husband and friends sipped slowly at frosted glasses of rosé, and it brought back memories of the nice drinking, because sometimes there was nice drinking, the drinking like this with friends in the ‘safety’ of a holiday home.
I slink to bed early and feel sorry for myself. Then I wake up the next morning and feel the relief that I am still sober, the relief that I managed not to fall for the lie that I ever drank safely.
Because here is my memory of my last drink, the one taken at 10 in the morning (or some time thereabouts) on the Saturday of the August bank holiday three years ago.
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