Open for business

I can go for fortnight without a drink — three weeks at a push. After that I begin to feel disconnected. I try to ignore the feeling, hoping it’s a symptom of Seasonal Affective Disorder, or the onset of a cold, or overdoing it at the gym. But it persists and, after several days, changes into a consuming, impotent rage, at which point the penny drops and I know that it’s time for a drink. And then comes that tremendous, slightly nerve-wracking moment when I present myself again at my favourite bar, reacquaint myself with the lovely young ladies loitering behind it and settle in for an evening of self-medication.

The rage subsides about three quarters of the way down the first pint of lager. By the time I’ve seen the bottom of the second glass, the buttoned-up old misanthrope of the past few weeks is gone and I’m a human being again and back in the swim.