I'm half way there, but to where?
And so, I arrive at the half-way mark in my month-long journey to sobriety, inner peace and utter smugness. Already, I have started to notice some great changes in my life. Namely, I am quickly becoming an outcast in my social circles. By the end of the month I'll be a hermetic Howard Hughes type, skulking around the house with a beard and yellowing talons, peeing into empty milk cartons and shouting obscenities out the window at passing children.
I am getting lots of kip though, because when you are on the dry there's bog-all else to do except curl up in bed in at 8.30, watch three episodes of The Good Wife and fall asleep out of sheer boredom. Anyone who has ever embarked on the solitary life of a teetotaller will have noticed that people are far more annoying when you're sober with their "Oh just come to the pub anyway and have sparkling water". To which I want to reply, "No, because the only way I can tolerate you is after three and a half glasses of wine".
It's not that I miss waking up at 7am with a tongue like a sodden sock, a severe case of exophthalmos and a wallet full of tattered receipts where my money used to be, it's just that life without drink is so samey. Sobriety is like Jennifer Aniston's wardrobe: perfectly nice, but all totally predictable.
Purely coincidentally, I read the other day that this year marks the 225th anniversary of the birth of temperance reformer and all around dryballs Father Mathew. Being from Cork, I am familiar with the old bible-basher because a statue of him looms large on Cork's main street. I'm not sure anyone in Cork knows Father Matthew was hell bent on ridding Ireland of the drink or they probably would have torn him down faster than the Iraqis did with that one of Saddam in Baghdad, but I'm sure he'd be proud of my efforts. For his sake, I'm just glad he's positioned far enough away so he can't see the goings on outside Waxy's round the corner at around 3am on a Saturday night.