Sober England

Boris Bikes BORE US when we can’t stop at THE CAT AND THISTLE for a refreshing shandy… With Val and Coco.

Just over a year ago, I was in England.  I was six months into my sobriety and vaguely miserable…  I am not one of those people who decided to become sober and turned my life around on a dime, suddenly running marathons or happily tending to the elderly.  I quit drinking like Joaquin Phoenix quit acting; I had a profound distaste for wine’s effect on me, but longed for the trappings of the drinking world.

Is there a worse place to go than the English countryside, when one is feeling nostalgic about alcohol?  Nestled on every corner is a thatched pub with a faded sign proclaiming “ALE” and an innocuous yet intriguing name like “THE MAIDEN AND STRUMPET”.  After a chilly walk along a pastoral scene where rivers or moors or downs abound, there is nothing like a plowman’s lunch and a glass of wine to finish off the perfect, lazy afternoon…

Order a shandy without beer and the publican will ask, “What’s that luv?”  There is nothing as LONG as several hours in a dank drinking establishment with dangling horse irons and six foot ceilings, when you’re drinking gassy water. When I look at the photographs of my trip, I either have a wan, woe-is-me pursed puss, or a happy-chappy leer that is positively frightening.  In one photo, Val says I look like an air hostess without the plane, like there’s been a horrible accident and I am the only survivor…

The leer of false holiday making…

I’m telling the pony, “I’m sober…”

This morning I’m feeling nostalgic for England and Valerie.  I’d like to go back now that sobriety has become a habit and I’m not so snarky about the fact I HAD to give up wine.  I might even enjoy sitting on a hard bench in a historic pub, hearth ablaze and with a tepid flagon of lemonade in my hand.

And maybe I’ll develop a taste for steak and kidney pie…