G without T

G and T, the favoured cure for gyppy tummy in Himalayan hill-stations, bubbled home from the Raj to the English suburbs to become the aperitif of choice in Betjemanic golf clubs and panelled bars from Altrincham to Carshalton. There is a particular pleasure in being in a London pub at the end of an office day, and hearing the clink of ice in glass, as barmaids ask ‘Do you want lemon in that?’ and office workers, happy that the tedium of toil is done, say, ‘Yes, and make those doubles.’

Larkin wrote about the pleasure of making G and T, but it was never my drink. Gin, for me as a boy, was the smell of gin and dry vermouth on my father’s moustache as he embraced me — a delicious aroma which I associate with fun, and the comforting sensation of being loved. I also associate it with that postwar England into which I was born, in which middle-middle-class people like us seldom drank wine with meals, but the grown-ups got tanked up on spirits and cigarettes before supper.