As we go to press, my plan to behave myself at the office Christmas party tonight is holding-up manfully. I rode my bike to the tube station this morning and left it there. The strategy behind this move is that having to ride it home from the station later will reinforce my resolve to drink moderately - the rationale being that one cannot ride a push bike when catastrophically pissed-up. Although having said that, I have done this in the past of course, once memorably along the very narrow towpath of the river Lea. The blood still curdles at the thought of that trip.
At my age, I should be able to control myself better than this. In small groups I am quite disciplined, but in a vulgar mob I lose all restraint. This is due to my profound shyness. I need at least four pints to settle my nerves. By then of course one's judgement is clouded and the Tasmanian Devil that lives in my head starts goading me into "having a tear up". The residual sensible part of my brain sees all this unfolding, but is powerless to intervene. He just sits in the corner, shaking his head and tutting. After a couple of hours of determined necking, I'll find myself dancing, and then even the crapulent mind knows the game's up.
No dancing tonight, none.
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