"Work is the curse of the drinking classes" - Oscar Wilde

'Unwind'; the luxurious verb copyrighted by yummy mummies everywhere to shrug away that second glass, that thrill when the cork pops out of the bottle, the light-headedness that comes from inhibiting all those ghastly nervous cell receptors that keep us towing the line. "Shhh", says the Sauvignon Blanc, "Take some time, put your feet up! INDULGE!"


I've been missing alcohol a lot in the evenings. In many ways, I still tick far too many of the boxes that 'responsible drinking' does not entail. Those boxes were ticked in ink the day I first opened a book by Evelyn Waugh, the day I watched Don Draper slinging back whiskey after whiskey and still being the most magnetic man in the room, the day I realized that little voice in my head could be made to disappear, and all it took was a glass.

'Enjoy responsibly', tells us the advert for Stolichnaya vodka, as beautiful people in beautiful surrounds drift across our line of vision. They're all having a fantastic time; more exciting, more dynamic, more romantic than anything my glass of watery Coca Cola can offer me.
'Drink sensibly', the college nurse tells us on our first day of university. I remember this bitterly as I'm sitting on the outside steps of the college bar later that evening, wondering why all of those strangers inside were having such a bloody FANTASTIC time, making the best of friends and living their Fresher's Week to the full.

The problem with unwinding a tightly coiled spring, is that some materials just don't return back to their former state once the tension has been released. They unravel and lose their shape, they get tangled and become utterly useless for the purpose they once proudly served. It takes but a tiny fraction of the effort to release a spring; allowing it to burst forth in a violent cascade of stored energy,  than it does to painstakingly wind it back, loop by loop.

3 and a half years later, I'm just managing to wind myself back up again. To find that line that I crossed many months ago and remember what it feels like to fall asleep sober.

Rule 1: Know when to stop drinking
Rule 1 (corrected): Know when to START drinking.
Do not start drinking because you can't fall asleep. Do not start drinking when you're anxious. Do not start drinking because it's 8.50am on a Tuesday morning and you're about to having a panic attack at the prospect of leaving your room and walking across town to sit in a crowded lecture theatre.

Rule 2:  Don't drink in secret
Rule 2 (corrected): It's still a secret if you're having a quiet drink with friends and you have to sneak off into the kitchen for stolen gulps of vodka because the amount everyone else is drinking isn't enough to even give you a slight buzz.

Have you ever felt guilty about your drinking?
Yes, doesn't everyone after a night out? You know what makes it go away? A drink.
Can they smell wine on my breath? I hope I remembered to take chewing gum with me. Am I blinking at a normal rate? Am I acting like I do when I'm sober? Better avert my eyes and say as little as possible.
Do they know?

Have you ever lied about the amount you were drinking?
Yeah, but only to health questionnaires. I mean, ask ANY normal student and their weekly average is WAY over the recommended units, right? And they all turn out fine...
Why is she drinking so slowly? Is it obvious that I've had most of the bottle we were going to 'share'? Oh shit, am I slurring? Is she having a good time? I can't tell..
Does she know?

Have you ever felt unable to stop drinking?
Nah, I mean, I'll stop when I want to, right? I just haven't reached the 'right' level of buzz yet. Look: everyone else is drinking too!
I have to stifle the gagging sensation of cheap vodka straight from the bottle. How is half of it gone already? This was supposed to last me the week! Well, tonight's the last night, then...
I don't know.

I can't say I enjoy falling asleep sober, I think that's where most of my nostalgia arises. I dream in colours too vivid to get any restful sleep. I toss and worry about things and people who probably don't think about me at all. My own drowsy brain embarrasses and frustrates me to the extent that I fall asleep with my face stuck deep into my pillow, eyes scrunched and hands covering my ears to block out the laughter and mocking sounds of voices that are already too deeply rooted in my brain.
No, I hate falling asleep sober.
But  I hate the look of my mother's broken face more. I hate not remembering what my best friend said to me last night. I hate my sister avoiding my glance. I hate the insects that run down my arms when I'm carrying a bottle I know I shouldn't have. I hate feeling the X-ray stare of shop cashiers, I hate feeling every gram of their disdain and pity for me (real or imagined). I hate counting coins and knowing how much own-brand alcohol costs in every store. I hate feeling my father's whiskery kiss on my forehead, a seal of approval that stings unworthy skin.

A friend of mine says she's gotten into the habit of enjoying a glass of wine after work most days. I want to cry and pray that she's made out of stronger spring than I am.