I was never an alcoholic before I went sober two and a half years ago. Rather, I was a classic British drinker, and never more so than at Christmas, when, just like little Aled Jones, I was walking in the air or, more accurately, three sheets to the wind from about 8 December until the end of the year. The term “alcoholic”, I thought, was for those who simply cannot face a day without a drink, but as a non-alcoholic mere “reveller”, I too couldn’t face any part of Christmas without a glass in hand.
The difference was that I did so in a sequined dress and, sometimes, an antler headband, so that was fine. If I drank four glasses of cotes du rhone after a carol service, followed by mulled wine with colleagues the next night, then champagne after shopping with friends and cocktails after ice skating, that was fine, too. I was just being festive. Traditionally, by the week before Christmas, I’d be feeling rather un-ho-ho-ho, with bloated, grey skin, a bit depressed and overwhelmed by the to-do list waiting for me.
