Examining my own drinking
An expert once told me that children of alcoholics apparently have a higher likelihood of adopting the bottle. That in itself is a sobering thought – especially as I lost my youngest brother to addiction last year. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but he was an addict. A drug addiction that plagued him over two decades, to varying degrees. And whether that’s nature, nurture or both, it’s a coincidence I don’t want to take a chance on. I’ve never seriously thought that I’ve got a drink problem and generally have a good off-switch (mostly), but there were times in my life where I was definitely drinking above the 14-unit limit.
I tasted my first alcohol when I was maybe 11 or 12, at a party in Pembrokeshire. It was some fancy hotel and I was allowed to have a little try of the champagne. I got a bit light-headed but never really touched it again until 15/16, when I started going out with my mates in the North East. I remember going to a nightclub where we’d try to buy halves of cider, but mostly get a soft drink because we knew we’d get asked for ID. Next step was university, where there was the standard level of drinking, but I very rarely got properly drunk.
My drinking levels probably escalated with my job as a journalist. There were lots of lunches and premiere parties. Lots of free drinks. These were the days where you went out for lunch and slid into dinner without ever making it back to the office; often with some illegible interview notes, scribbled on the back of a cigarette packet (yes that really did happen). Bars and eateries were the meeting rooms of the 1990s. From swanky Conran restaurants in west London to spit and sawdust pubs in Soho, it wasn’t unusual to drink most days – and drink we did.
I don’t think I ever made any connections with my Dad’s drinking, as it felt so different – the working men’s clubs and the London life. But it wasn’t really: both included excessive levels of alcohol – just in different wrapping.
There were a couple of occasions I couldn’t remember going to bed, which was worrying. After one all-day work session, I remember boarding my train at St Pancras to go to Wellingborough in Northamptonshire; the next thing I knew, I was at Nottingham station at 2am. I called my husband at the time. He was not impressed, especially as we had a young toddler. I slept in a Photo-Me booth on the platform – it wasn’t my finest moment.
Having kids was amazing, but all of the parents we hung out with drank quite a bit. We’d have wonderful dinner parties, where the volume of the booze stayed the same, but the quality went up. The fun times kept on rolling.
Dad visited occasionally, and we’d giggle about the size of his drinks. We had those red wine glasses that are quite large, but you only fill to the widest part of the glass. Dad laughed in the face of those measures.
I usually tried to have three alcohol-free nights a week, but that was sometimes hard if we were cooking dinner, because it was enhanced by a glass of wine. I’ve always been more of a fan of wine with dinner than binge drinking on a night out, so I never really thought it was a huge problem. Also, I’m queen of the French exit – they cut drinking down a lot. As it gets later, and more drunken, I quietly take my leave. All my friends are used to it, and even if you have slight FOMO at the time, you never regret it.
I’ve never done Dry January or Sober October. My Birthday is in January and half-term in October, and my ex-partner and I would always go away for half-term. Foreign holidays to Greece or Turkey, a cottage in Wales – it was all enhanced by a couple of drinks. Saying it out loud, they sound a bit like excuses… maybe they were.
