In March 2020, as we heard rumours of the first lockdown and people began stockpiling loo roll, I went to my local Tesco and bought a load of tinned fruit and vegetables, plus several mini bottles of Prosecco.
The rations many of us collected ended up being quite unnecessary, as shops remained open throughout the pandemic, and so I never did get round to eating the tinned carrots. But I definitely drank the Prosecco.
In fact, I spent those first hot lockdown months working away during the morning and afternoon, while my husband looked after the kids, and raising a glass in the garden, late afternoon, to mark the end of the day.
Prosecco. Cocktails. Beer.
It was a way to punctuate the otherwise seamless shift from work into ‘life’. It felt celebratory on days when the business was doing well. And it was a way to connect with my husband, on a different level, while the kids played with mud and water.
Alcohol is good for that: shifting the energy; marking a celebration; easing monotony. We had nowhere to go, but a drink would make us feel like we were escaping. We weren’t getting drunk, ever, just softening the edges.
When I felt I was drinking too much - or, perhaps, too often - I stopped. Gave it up completely and felt great. Until a friend messaged and asked if I’d like to go for a boozy walk. I said I’d love a walk but that I wasn’t drinking and she said…
Forget it.
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