I’m currently in the odd position of being a barmaid who doesn’t drink much. Given that I spend several hours, several nights of the week, in an establishment dedicated to the purchase and consumption of alcohol, you might expect the level of temptation to be quite high. Somehow, though, it rarely seems worth the after-effects; I have the dubious distinction of being able to develop a hangover from half a lager.
Despite my general abstemiousness, I did overindulge a smidgeon last night and am feeling fittingly terrible today. Just like last year, I’m struck by the arbitrariness of the idea that the first of January should be the date you turn your life around. I’m even more struck by the inappropriateness of preceding this scheduled epiphany with parties at which the main aim is usually to stay up too late, eat rubbish and drink far too much. We humans truly excel at setting ourselves up for failure.
However, in a bid to get into the merry frame of mind that led one brewery to market a beer as “Santa’s Blotto” (recently on sale in the pub), I have developed a winter cocktail of my own. It’s called a New Year’s Day, and it tastes of guilt and exhaustion: