I’m at a party. Everyone is drinking, except me. I stick out like a sore thumb. It’s hot and stuffy and there are lots of us packed into a tiny flat. Whose flat is it? I don’t know.
I spot someone I know from university. I haven’t seen her in about ten years. Why is she here? She isn’t part of this circle of friends. She’s heavily pregnant. Someone is offering her a glass of wine and she refuses. Then they pour a tiny bit into a sherry glass and after a pause she knocks it back in one go. She always was a party girl.
Hmmm, I think. Maybe this is a sign? If she’s allowed a little drink then surely I am. It’s not fair that everyone else can have one. I feel left out. Fuck it, I’m going to have one. Just one. I’ll make sure it’s only one. Maybe I should put mine in a sherry glass too.
I knock the wine back and whoosh – it’s like getting on a roller coaster and I can’t get off. Within minutes I’m chugging back anything I can get my hands on, pouring it into glasses that look like small goldfish bowls. I’ve parked myself in the kitchen and I’m constantly refilling my glass. I don’t bother to offer anyone else a drink. As the wine runs out I start sneaking gulps out of other people’s glasses when they’re not looking.
Suddenly the party is over. All the lights are on and people are leaving. I head for the door. It’s late but I must get more wine. I run through potential options in my head. If I was ever on Mastermind, my specialist subject would be shop closing times. The Co-op is open untill 11 but they stop selling alcohol at 10pm (been caught out there before). Spar shuts at 11. Tesco is probably my best option as it’s open till midnight. If I’m desperate there’s that weird shop at the train station where the night cashier takes your order through the glass.
“Kate – you’re staying here remember?” one of my friends yells. “Help us clear up.” What? Why have I agreed to stay over? I wish I could work out where I was. Maybe I could sneak out when everyone’s gone to bed.
Then it hits me, full force. I am not supposed to be drinking. I promised. I said I meant it this time. I feel disgusted with myself. What about my blog? What about the 100 day challenge? I’ll have to tell everyone I screwed up. Maybe I could keep it a secret? I’m not very good at lying though. I always get caught out. I suppose I could just email Belle and ask her to start me back at Day 1. Maybe she won’t tell anyone. Dealing with the blog could be trickier. Oh the shame of it. Maybe I could just delete the blog? If you delete your WordPress account does it remove the blog or does it remain in cyber space forever? I don’t know.
I woke up still wondering whether it’s possible to remove all traces of a blog. It’s probably best I don’t know the answer to that as it turns out my unconscious mind is pretty sneaky. The relief, when I realised it was all a bad dream, was tremendous. I hadn’t realised quite how proud I am of my 28 days.