An abstemious Christmas ...

There was a time when I loved drink - I'd gaze happily at the labels of wine bottles in rough off licenses, frequented by shaven headed bravos, murmuring the magic names to myself as though they were incantations - Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot noir, Pinotage, Rioja -

My dad would offer me a glass - the sun would be over the yard arm - he told me stories of mess dinners, the port passing to left, his horror that ships in the American Navy were dry -

I never had any delicacy when it came to bumpers - I'd gulp them down - I can remember drinking wine with Annick - it was Christmas Eve - there was a tiny Christmas Tree in her bed sit in Winchester - I sat in a armchair, cloaked in a great coat, like a commissar - she rolled skinny cigarettes between gulps with her clever tender fingers - in the Cathedral, the long nave was filled with angels - we'd been delivering leaflets for some cheapskates - we threw most of them away - I was wearing round rimmed glasses - Annick smelled of smoke -

I'd seek out pubs and delight in their different atmospheres - I especially liked small country pubs, with a melancholy juke box, or seething bars with wild boys playing electric guitars -

But since my diagnosis of bowel cancer, three years ago, I've cut down on drinking - I share a bottle of beer a week with Anne - I go the gym - I daydream whilst I'm on the Bike Excite - I've lost weight - I've had to put an extra notch in my belt -

We bought some bottles of real ales for Christmas, lining them up upon the kitchen worktop - although we left them unopened, I could still sense their glamour -