Despite the inner dialogue bubbling away periodically during the day, I stuck with last night’s decision. And I’m so glad I did. My dilemma was whether to drive to and from the station to go out this evening, or to drive instead. I opted to drive. This decision was largely based on practical reasons; it was simply easier to take myself to the station and back. The clincher was realising that having two or three drinks would add about £20 to my night in taxi fares. It makes those drinks pretty expensive. At the back of my mind, though, were undoubtedly lingering fears about alcohol. After months and months on the wagon at the end of last year – when I decided it was simply easier to cut booze out completely – it has gradually snuck back in. Not horrendously so; no dramatic incidents, no disasters, no embarassing myself or compromising my integrity. I’ve been proud of how my relationship with the demon drink seems to have evolved. But I’m still nervous. I’m still uncertain as to how much is too much, how often is too often. So I guess it does me good to consciously choose not to drink sometimes still. I need to know that I can still say no, even if not every time. And looking around me at the boozed up people on a late train out of London (several of whom are drinking 2l bottles of water as if that will disguise the fact they’ve had a skinful), I’m happy with my choice today.

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