As a regular reader I’m sure you’ve noticed that I talk about alcohol more than is good for me; this is because I like a drink. I don’t drink to get drunk but I view alcohol as an excellent, and well proven, social lubricant in the right hands. I relish the extraordinary variety of ways humans have found to brew, ferment and distill the flora of the world into its intoxicating essence.
However, I’m currently on the wagon. Abstaining. Off the sauce. In short, I’m not drinking.
A shameful state of affairs, but desirable for a time. Your correspondent’s trousers have been getting a little tight around the midriff recently, so it’s time to lose some weight. A bit of body maintenance required. Nothing extreme, you understand, but a quick refresher course in moderation.
As one whose body has always taken every opportunity to store away fat in preparation for some far off primal emergency, I’ve spent my adult life watching what I eat. Acquaintances are often surprised at my ability to start and stop smoking at will, or stop drinking for a while with no outward signs of a struggle, but these things are as nothing compared to the constant self-discipline that prevents over-indulgence in my deep and abiding love of food.
If I ate what I liked I’d be the size of a house, so my day-to-day diet is careful anyway, but I’m being a bit stricter just now.
Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you some lies