Good news on the dry week front (see previous entry): not a drop of strong liquour passed my parched lips hier soir. I used to be diligent at not drinking during the week, and what's more I enjoyed it. It gives the week some variety, you sleep better and it makes the weekend special (not like a special school). In fact, I don't know why I let the habit slip. But I did.
Actually, I do know. When you realise you have no narcotic addiction to booze, it loses its threat and you develop a cavalier attitude to its use. You know you can stop. So you don't. And drink means one doesn't have to think about what to do of an evening. I have a pathological dislike of not having something to do, not in a deeply irritating derring-do way. I don't go base-jumping or strangle bears "in order to feel alive", but I must have something to divert my attention from my fate. And finding compelling pastimes is difficult. One runs out of inspiration and energy. That's where booze slots in. It gives you something to do. With its absence, other, previously less thrilling, evening rituals become more important. Dinner for example. I do look forward to my supper when I'm not drinking. Yum.
I shall persevere.
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