“I don’t drink.”
“Yeah, you said that last time. That isn’t strictly accurate is it?”
“Well, ok, on a scale with the rest of you, I’m definitely at the ‘not drinking’ end. Practically OFF the scale at that end, in fact…”
Grudgingly, good-humouredly – “True.”
I am now nearly four weeks ‘clean’, following the booziest week of my year, on choir tour in Italy. I can almost walk in a straight line again! The Italian week followed the usual pattern –
Day 1 – have a polite glass of rosato at dinner whilst catching up with everyone
Day 2 – have a pint or two of water whilst hoovering up as many crostini as possible before sitting down to eat. It is, after all, still 30 degrees and my body hasn’t quite caught up. Indulge in a polite glass of rosato at dinner – and another, and possibly a small one more
Day 3 – sensibly decline an invitation to an informal wine-tasting, but am persuaded to go along for the social side, and inevitably sample most of the wines on offer. The sommelier is completely understanding of my predicament and gives me the tiniest drop each time (bless him – he has limited supplies tonight). I make up for it by indulging in a rather lovely medley of whatever is offered to me during the marathon that is annual pizza night.
Day 4 – after a stonkingly good concert, and ample sensible hydration in the car on the way back to the villa, I allow myself to join the others in a celebratory pre-prandial rosato or two and at the meal I find myself testing a couple of local whites. On declaring that I am off to bed – it is, after all, 2am – I am delayed by agreeing to make coffee for a few people and before I know it, I am sitting back down in front of a slug of Limoncino (local Limoncello – lemon liqueur) which has to be finished before I can retire. Hmm, I thought I didn’t like that stuff…
Day 5 – I am sad and grumpy because today’s concert has gone, for me at least, much less well than yesterday’s. Nevertheless, we head to a Montepulciano bar which must have one of the best views in the world and I have no hesitation in ordering a large and rather full-bodied rosato (mainly, of course, so I can take a naff photo of it into the sunset). Back at the villa, I miserably revert to my acqua habit but use a large wine-glass which accidentally gets filled with vermentino later on
Day 6 – today is a rest day. As it is too hot even to sit around all day, I choose to take the train to Perugia for a quick look-around. Trains are air-conditioned – respite at last! By evening, and on return from Perugia, the heavens have opened and we have to take the week’s main wine-tasting event indoors. This is a sign-up event for which those who partake pay a supplement, so that we can be treated to one or two properly expensive bottles among the range on offer. I would be mad to turn this down. I am not mad (just a bit grumpy and unhinged) so I steel myself and it proves completely worth while. I somehow avoid making any truly ridiculous comments. “I’m getting biscuit tones.” “A bit damp on the nose there”
Day 7 – our last full day begins with a fevered dash to the Duomo to sing Mass, and I congratulate myself for being one of the very few performers without a hangover. By evening, normal service has resumed across our entire team and of course we need to finish our supplies. There is, in fact, a shortage of white wine and no rosato at all, but I rediscover the delights of dessert wine and in anticipation of performing my ridiculous end-of-tour song may be observed with two full glasses lined up to allow a proper comparison between the cheap one and the more expensive ‘classic’. I am suitably emboldened by the vino and rise to my only-slightly unsteady feet to let rip with Funiculi Funicula and O Sole Mio as you have never heard them before – including a ludicrous finale of high Tenor notes! Of course, these songs come with my own words, and the quality of my writing is generally lower than last year I fear. There is, however, a gift of a piece from our concert repertoire this time which had just begged to be ripped off for comedic purposes and it does indeed hit the spot. Just a shame the composer’s son is sitting at the next table – perhaps this is why I needed quite so much dessert juice – although in fairness the words are taken from a famous saying by a rabbi from some 2000 years ago*, and thus it’s just my own interpretation… So, apart from the fact that I might somehow be cancelled for my mauling and caterwauling of an ancient Jewish text (this has only just occurred to me – and yet I continue to publicise here – perhaps I AM actually a bit mad), I seem to get away with it and there is an enormous laugh. I can see how comedians get their kicks.
Day 8 – the tour is ended. I retreat to a friend’s villa in the hills where it is cooler, the wine is proffered at a more civilised (still generous) rate, they have evening limoncello (as opposed to early-hours-of-the-morning limoncello) and they introduce me to Disaronno for which I immediately acquire a taste (oooh – roll on Christmas!).
As usual, in my tired and deranged post-villa state, I succumb to the lure of the Duty Free at Florence Airport and purchase (in addition to the unhealthy local sweet treats for Mr J as a sop for missing his birthday) one of those half-sized thin bottles of limoncello that all tourists buy, and a bottle of Vin Santo (a tipple to which I was introduced two years ago, into which I have been taught to dunk those hard almond biscuits – cantuccini) to lug across London in my already too-heavy luggage. Idiot!
I have lost count of the number of random bottles I have placed in our kitchen cupboards after overseas trips. In earlier days, these would have been consumed by the offspring when their friends came round, or maybe at Christmas if I’d hidden them better. But these days, no-one is going to drink them unless I remember to schedule them as courses or specific games-accompaniment at Christmas, or make a concerted effort myself in the meantime.
And here’s the thing. I have not had a drop of alcohol in the past four weeks. It just seems unnecessary. It is not part of my routine. If I have a drink, I add unnecessary calories without eliminating hunger. I have to drink coffee to stave off the headaches, but I otherwise stick to plain old tap water at home. When I go out, and others are drinking alcohol, I’ll probably join in, but quite often go for a lemonade instead.
I’d love a glass of limoncello now though. Or maybe this evening in front of the telly. Or both. Steady now…
*The piece in our concert was “He Used to Say” by Michael Zev Gordon. Ours was only the second public performance of it which was quite exciting in itself. The words are “He used to say ‘If I am not for me, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I?’ He used to say” (‘He’ is Hillel the Elder, a Rabbi from 2000 years ago and this is drawn from Sayings of the Fathers).