Those of you reading this that know me will be aware I no longer drink. Those of you that have yet to have the displeasure, I no longer drink.
Actually as a small aside, after watching various sitcoms as a child I was led to believe that everyone who stops drinking alcohol intimately knows when they last had a drink. I don’t. I feel robbed. Almost as if I have missed out on a Buckfast blooming, a Smirnoff seasoning, or a Cointreau coming of age for the more discerning patron.
It has been predominantly a simple task, avoiding intoxication. Despite the obvious disadvantage of being born Scottish, I almost needed mention the fixation we have on drinking, Glasgow especially. Yet the best we have to offer is Tennents lager. The adverts are good though, and it is cheap.
Anyway, I’m sidetracking myself, while it has been simple on the most part I do often miss having a glass of wine. Not just for the taste, for the whole experience. Every second of sitting there, with a self satisfied smirk on my face, basking in my own false air of superiority. Feeling the dizzying highs of culture as I squint at the label, pretending (mainly to myself) that I have the slightest notion of where “Château de Caché” is located. Sniffing the glass, as if the smoking habit had not destroyed my sense of smell beyond determining “good” or “bad.”
In hindsight, maybe it is for the best I don’t drink.