It's not that I have a problem, exactly

You know, I just thought back, and I can’t remember the last time I went twenty four hours without alcohol.

That can’t be good.

But you know how it is; Wednesday there’s a party, Thursday is cold and a glass of port by the fire is a nice way to end the evening, Friday is a gossipy night full of angst and drama, and one can hardly have conversations like that without alcohol. Saturday is, well, Saturday. Sunday: you expect me to cook goats cheese and herb crusted fish with asparagus and couscous, and not open a bottle of wine to go with it?

That’s okay, I thought, I shall have a nice healthy sober week.

And then Angela and I had an hour to kill after work Monday, and the most logical place to kill it was a local bar. Only one glass of wine, to be sure, but still.

Last night, despite my best intentions, I went to dinner and a film with friends. The problem that was that dinner was at a place famed for its homebrew beer (and its wood oven pizza – words do not do it justice, and I don’t even like pizza much) and I think maybe they refuse to serve you food if you don’t buy a large pint of delicious malty goodness. I might be wrong about that, but I chose not to arouse the ire of the owners by finding out. They’re big guys.

And no, all pints are not the same size. Trust me here.

And since you ask, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest is pretty, and silly, and a little Marx Brothers in parts. No, I’m not much of a film critic. See it yourself. Do I have to do everything around here? Jesus.

Tonight I’ll be good. I’m almost sure of it.