Update - 53 days of sobriety

Wowser - that's about 1/7 of the year! Two pregnancies and early childhood aside, I don't think I have ever gone this long without even a drop, sniff, tiny tipple of a drink. And do you know what - I am loving it! I have to admit that I have been out a little less than I normally would but that's easy this time of year. I went to the pub this Thursday and Friday and watched several friends consume enough to make their teeth that lovely red-wine grey, their movements wobbly and their articulation a little less than clear and I wasn't tempted to join them once. I thought people would be uncomfortable having a teetotaller in their midst but this hasn't appeared to be the case so far. I appear to pick up on their stance and feel a little drunk myself.

Other observations:
- I get tired in a way I would not when I drink. Clearly the stimulant effect of alcohol has a big impact. But I also notice that tiredness makes me feel a little tipsy in itself.
- Being sober amongst drunk people has held a mirror up to my former self. Is that what I go like? My husband has told me the standard route is incessant talking and ineffective listening - I do stop talking when somebody else speaks but it is like the other person talking is an interruption I have to be patient about and then I just continue where I left off when they have finished. What anyone says has no impact on what I am talking about. Lucky friends. But do I wobble?
- I occasionally miss the actual warm feeling you get from drinking. Not from any trigger other than my mind wanders there. I have decided that the optimum mood enhancement happens between the end of the first drink up to about half way through the third drink. It's a shame I could never guarantee staying in that lovely window. That window also = optimum fun. On a heavy and enthusiastic night's drinking that can equate to quite a short amount of time.
- I am having fun anyway!
- I am feeling pleased with myself and admiring my resolve.
- I am loving the absence of hangovers.

The other side of the bar.

The Adam and Eve is the oldest pub in Norwich - founded in 1249. It served beer to people who built parts of the cathedral and it had its own wherry at one point. It is quite a sophisticated pub what with being laden with so much history, beautiful old beams, cosy, higgledy piggledy nooks and crannies, Dutch gables, pretty hanging baskets full of flowers, pride in its huge range of different whiskies and - positioned opposite the law courts - often being full of legal bigwigs. But I worked there.

The landlord at the time (Colin Burgess) was a 'character'. He was frequently given less that six weeks to live by his doctor if he didn't stop smoking and drinking. On the days he received this news, he usually drowned his sorrows in several gin and tonics. To his staff he was firm but also erratically kind. He wanted the customers to be happy and served well but he also took quite a paternal approach with his staff - especially the short blonde ones. When I once told him I was going to Cornwall for a holiday he was outraged. He leant forward and showed me a wad of rolled up cash in his front shirt pocket and said, 'go on Mols - help yourself and have a proper holiday.' I didn't because I suspected some alcohol was talking - as it often was. When he learnt I loved brussel sprouts - he'd always leave me a few in a saucepan. But the following act of 'paternal' love was the best.

Remember when last orders was called ten minutes before 11 p.m., time was called at eleven and then you had a strict twenty minutes to drink up and leave? This story came from that time. I had called time. This young, drunk man marched into the pub and demanded a pint of beer. I replied, 'I am sorry sir but time has been called.' He made his demand again. I repeated my polite refusal. He then re-uttered his demand somewhat aggressively and enhanced it by grabbing my T-shirt and lifting me up a little. He was quite big and I have always been quite small. And it is only upon reflection and when I had received several perturbed responses from this story that I realised that what I did next was a little odd. I couldn't tell you where the idea came from. I stood firm, stuck my finger up his nose and stated clearly, while moving my finger slowly to the left and then the right of the bar in time with each word, with his nose following, 'You - cannot - have - a - pint - of - beer - sir.' I stopped with my finger still in place. I watched as he lifted his nose - attached to a considerably startled face - off my finger. He backed off. I watched as he rejoined the group of his friends a short distance from the bar and recounted the story to them and pointed at me. I smiled. His friends clearly thought he was making it all up. I won.

And then some niggling doubt crept in. Colin had such a pride in his pub and in keeping customers happy. I suspected that sticking fingers up his customers' noses wasn't really what he had in mind when it came to customer care. What if the man told on me? Colin knew I was a little unorthodox in places. So I confessed. Head bowed in uneasy shame, I told Colin the whole story. I was dreading his response. He could be quite fiery and unpredictable - like most alcoholics. And I simply could not have predicted his response. He put his arm around me and said in a way that seemed like he had carefully considered what I had divulged, 'Mols if you thought it was appropriate to stick your finger up a customer's nose, then I trust your judgement.' Excellent managerial call in my opinion.

The Drunken Shits, UEA - My career in alcohol Part 2

During the freshers' week upon arriving at university the society fair offered no end of clubs and groups for young enthusiasts to engage in. I did the rounds keenly, asked lots of questions and signed myself up the three such clubs. The first one was the 'Fell and Cave' society. I don't think my 18 year old self fully understood what was involved but I do remember two weekends away from halls in term time. Those weekends had no caves but there was a lot of walking across moors in the rain. I also remember sleeping in a cold and damp derelict building in the Peak District and sleeping in a youth hostel in the Yorkshire Moors. I also remember a well-earned hearty beer or two at the end of each day and enjoying that the most.

The second club clearly had no impact on me whatsoever because I cannot remember what it was. I only remember that I joined three. The third, however, I partook in as a bona fide, full on, complete and utter, could not be more involved, enthusiast. That society was known as, 'The Drunken Shits'. For the fee they charged at the beginning of the year (£3?), you got an excellent service. Every Friday at about 3 p.m. a map with a list of at least ten pubs was delivered into the pigeon hole in your school of study. In the eighties, the city of Norwich boasted a church for every week of the year (not needed) and a pub for every day of the year (essential) and the Drunken Shits aimed to cover them all in the academic year. It succeeded.

Very rarely did I miss a crawl. It started early so sometimes I joined later. I also took to taking a carrier bag with me. I appear to have collected beer mats, towels and ash trays. I remember also always feeling lost. The maps they provided were clear but the route usually started in a place everyone knew and then often took you to an area in the outskirts of Norwich nobody knew. This was not at all helpful when your consciousness was the other side of several pints.

As such a loyal crawlee, I must have been in with the organisers too because I somehow managed to get a design my brother drew onto the Drunken Shits' official T-shirt one year. And this tiny photo - where you cannot really see that it tells you that I am a drunken shit - is all the memento I have of that extraordinary part of my career in alcohol. And that photo is of me with an American couple in Lucerne and we are all appropriately inebriated.