Every so often I realise my relationship with alcohol is making me feel a little uncomfortable. Occasionally I’ll be drinking slightly more of it than I’m happy with, become aware of how many nights out (or sometimes nights in) have been followed by a head that’s thicker than I’d like it to be.
If you’re a woman of a certain age working in a certain sector or having given birth to a certain amount of children, gin is supposed to be a survival thing. “Gin O’Clock!” we’re assumed to exclaim daily as the clock ticks over to 7pm (or is it 6? or even 5?), before pouring ourselves a large measure of the botanical stuff over a mountain of ice, glugging it down while our angels play with their fish fingers.