Fridays always used to be vodka. A quarter litre hidden inside the pocket of a puffa jacket. I was tall, I was a girl, I’d get served. We told our mums that Fridays were swimming or skating or Stimulation (the local under 18s disco. A little too aptly named!). But really, Fridays were vodka.
But now I am a grown up and, somewhere along the way, Fridays became wine. I say ‘somewhere along the way’ but, looking back, I probably know when. When I didn’t want to grow up. When the weekend began on a Wednesday night. And wine is okay on a Wednesday. Two glasses of dry white wine with ice please. And then another two. And another. Extended weekends with my best friend, attempting to avoid the inevitable.
And now that is here. A weekend shop done. Plans shared and negotiations made with my partner. Baby bathed and in bed.
And wine: my little escape.
I don’t like to be drunk anymore. In fact, I hate it. But that first sip! It marks a moment. The beginning. The weekend. It has become an event. Just as it did all that time ago. And, no matter how much I have grown, no matter how much I want to be good, no matter how much I tell myself it is unnecessary; I just don’t want to give that up.