If anyone catches me with a beer before Friday night, they have my permission to punch me in the face. I’m trying to cut down on my drinking; I had intended to have a week of abstinence from Thursday onwards. That was when my parents popped down, and we collectively decided I needed to drink less and take in more vitamins, as that might help with my absences. I spend too much in pubs anyway, so after my detoxification week I’m only have the odd night out.

However, yesterday afternoon I popped over to chopper’s, only to find him in quite a state. He had fallen out of his loft and was obviously in quite a bit of pain. At first I offered to scoot off, to keep out of his way, but he declined that proposition vehemently. Then it occurred to me that what my buddy needed was a pint, so I proposed that he borrowed my manual wheelchair and we go to the Royal Oak.

So we went. I told myself (and Lyn) that I’d stick to Coke or lemonade, but one thing predictably lead to another; pubs just seem to have that effect on me, and needless to say I felt annoyed with myself when I got home. My alcohol free week had been going so well, and I knew that the pint I’d have at the end of it would taste all the better for it, but now I have to start again. On thee other hand, I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on myself for being so weak-willed: mates are mates after all.

Mind you, I keep forgetting that there are much cooler things than pubs in the would: I haven’t been clothes shopping in ages, and, for me, the cool, tight feel of a new leotard easily outweighs an evening in a grotty pub. It’s also kinder to my liver. The next time the C-ster asks if I want a trip to the pub, I’ll propose we go shopping instead.