Londoners Magazine

I rarely get drunk. But for some reason I have gained a reputation for being drunk all of the time. This is because I love to drink. Be it an ice cold lager in a beer garden on a hot day, a Pimms and lemonade in the Victorian tea rooms with my mother or a vodka cranberry at sticky tables and wobbly chairs in my local with my flatmate. But my real speciality and love affair is wine. Wine is my drink of the gods (wine and Ribena, but that is a separate point).

I remember from an early age, possibly as young as six, my father letting me have a sip of wine at Sunday lunch. Fairly soon this progressed to a glass all of my own and now, it is a very regular occurrence in my family for a good Sunday Times Wine Club bottle to be cracked open once a night.

Will I blame my parents when I have to undergo a liver transplant? They are cutting back. They don’t drink on a Tuesday. Their rational: Monday is the first day back to work and cause to drown the sorrows. Wednesday is half way through the week and therefore congratulations are in order for making it thus far. Thursdays? Well, it’s nearly the weekend so we might as well start now. Friday through Saturday is the weekend so perfectly acceptable. And Sunday is God’s day. You even get wine in church. Which leaves Tuesday.

Do I blame my ancestry? I come from a proudly Scottish family, and we all know the stereotypes of miserly drunk Scots. It’s true. I am quite stingy.

I remember one of my friends coming into my room in my first year of university to find me drinking a bottle of wine to myself while watching Question Time or something equally banal. She was horrified that I was drinking alone, without planning on leaving the building, heading to the pub and getting rat arsed. I explained that if I were at home, I would be doing the same thing but with my parents. She told me that was not normal.

Five years on I’m no better. I work in a rather fancy east London gastropub and I happily have a drink or two every night of the week. So who do I blame for my condition? Is my family still the cause, my heritage or my fellow staff members? Maybe it’s just me. And I’m not ready to stop just yet.