Sober England

bikes

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…

 

crabtraps

The leer of false holiday making…

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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…

Today I’m not drinking because I’m waxing nostalgic…

How come you’re not drinking?