Recently a friend was diagnosed with a rare medical condition which entails, among other inconveniences, that she stay off the booze for ever. Obviously this is tough news for a girl in her drinking prime, but she is determinedly focusing on the positive side - reminding herself how fresh-faced and trim she'll be by comparison with her raddled and puffy contemporaries. "Just think, I'll never make a fool of myself again in public," she said excitedly. "No more spots, no more hangovers, no more black teeth!" For a moment, I was almost jealous.
Having given up drink for Lent this year, I am uncomfortably aware of the advantages of being on the wagon. I'd always assumed that I was simply not a natural morning person, but it turns out I can bounce out of bed with the best of them. Likewise, I thought I was hovering around my natural weight - but again, wrong (subtract four to five pounds for the teetotal me). I could keep going (productivity up by roughly 35 per cent; arguments with close friends and relatives down by the same proportion; heel repair minimal; breakages in flat, especially glasses, non-existent; ditto small fires in bedroom), but there's no point rubbing in what we already know, which is that we would be fitter, leaner, more productive beings if we were permanently on the wagon. It does make you wonder why we don't just pack it in altogether. Think of the money we'd save, the skin elasticity we'd recover, the cabs we wouldn't have to take, and all the extra space in the fridge.
And then my friend reminded me why giving up drink is not a viable option, unless medically advised: "I don't miss alcohol. The problem is all the people who have a go at you for not drinking, and make you feel bad about not joining in. I've concluded that the English have a very weird attitude to drink."
How true that is. We must be the only culture where comparing hangovers, on a weekday, in the office, is a source of amusement for all age groups (not just the student work experience); the only people who delight in recounting our embarrassing, life-threatening, drunken exploits to an admiring audience. Where else in the world would a girlfriend ring you up to check if you still want to go out "because I'm not drinking, I'm really sorry"? Certainly, during my brief abstinence, I often sat next to someone at dinner who looked aghast when I asked for the water, as if this constituted a lack of social commitment bordering on selfishness.
In Britain, drink is a unifying force, a leveller, an inhibition releaser - not so much an oiler of wheels as a crucial requirement of social intercourse. People are scared of what it's doing to us, but absolutely terrified of operating without it. Just try saying no and see where that gets you.
