Tiddled again…

I am not I hasten to say a soak. Getting pissed is not a past time. It is merely something that happens now and again.

And after careful scientific process over the last three months I can now categorically announce that it takes 2 and a half glasses to get me to the tipping point.

One and a half glasses and I merely happy and in control but one more and I am not safe to drive.

Three glasses and Darling however much I seem to be suggesting  that Nirvana is here and waiting for you, I hate to say it but I am too far gone to take part let alone remember in the morning.

I swear when I was younger I was  not nearly so weak but numerous pregnancies, two boys and a few years past my fortieth and well let’s just say I am beginning to know my limits especially as a new term dawns and I have to get up to do the school run.

I still love the old vino and I am particularly fond of anything with a bit of a fizz however these days I have to pace myself and take care.

Long gone are the days when Whisky Macs were my staple diet interspersed with Marlborough Lights and Pot Noodles.

Nowadays it is a healthy diet that must suffice no fags, little whisky and certainly no pot noodles!

Writing under the influence…

Have you ever done it? I mean tried writing when you were drunk? I am doing it now and perhaps that is not a good thing but I suppose it depends on what kind of drunk you are. Of course I am not saying that I am drunk; merely sort of unhinged, no not unhinged that would be me about to go to the nut house when actually I am already there. What I meant was liberated but that’s pretty close to unhinged isn’t it?

There are a lot of squiggly red lines when you are liberated and the question is should one care? Or is that part of the process?

I am merrily drunk, happily pissed, unilaterally uninhibited. If it were warmer I swear I would divest myself of clothing and go frighten the chickens by swanning about nymph like in my wood but I don’t think it would be appreciated. By neither my neighbours nor my husband.

However there’s the devil in me wishing I was really as uninhibited…

I find it fascinating how after all these years my writing reflects how much I feel and how I can tell by those first few lines exactly what I was thinking and feeling at the time even though mostly what I write is fairly prosaic. I am sure we all notice it when we give ourselves the time. It’s a bit like looking at a photograph; you are slightly divorced from the moment and then you are there. It’s all in your mind’s eye and the scents, feelings and sensibility of the occasion all come rushing in as you fight your way back to the time when…

I am a writer but until right now I never admitted it. It’s kind of a bitter secret for by admission I feel I am announcing that I am merely an observer of life rather than one of its participants but it has always been thus. I have never quite fitted in either in my family or with my friends. Maybe I am kinda autistic but perhaps that is wishful thinking. There should be no excuses.

Carpe deum should be my motto but I fear it is more mea culpa and sometimes even cave canem.

Maybe that’s how I should describe my life –apologising for seizing the day then blaming it on the dog…

Well they do say In Vino Veritas….