We all know ‘festive’ means getting drunk. But say you don’t want to?
For most of the year, my sobriety is manageable. In booze-obsessed December, it’s a different story
The party was in full swing. Brandishing a twig of mistletoe in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other, I danced across the room and locked eyes with the stranger in the corner. “Happy Chrisshmas,” I slurred, then, oblivious to the shock on his face, I planted a huge kiss on his cheek and fell on his lap.
When I awoke the next morning, I was in a strange bed and he was next to me. I had no idea how I got there. I staggered out of his flat and vomited in the Uber. I was at my lowest ebb.
Blackouts like this were happening all too often. I was 26 and I had spent the last 10 years in a fug of alcohol and bad behaviour: the broken friendships, the gin and tonics until I passed out in a dodgy club at 3am, and the grovelling letters of apologies to fuming dinner party hosts (“Sorry I ruined the game of Trivial Pursuit, took off my top and demanded everyone dance”) had all taken their toll...