Idid Dry January once, five years ago. I lasted four days, before finding myself deep-diving into a bottle-and-a-half of wine. So, if you’ve slumped off the wagon already, I get it. If you had no desire to hop on the godforsaken wagon in the first place, I understand that too.
Having worked on magazines such as Glamour and Cosmopolitan in my twenties, during which I drank the opening-of-an-envelope dry if the booze was free, my intake had ticked up and up.
I could have drunk anyone under the table; you wouldn’t have stood a chance. I was a seven-or-eight-bottles-of-wine -a-week kinda gal.
I once fell asleep while talking to my boss at the Christmas party. There was the time my boyfriend found me unconscious on our doorstep at 1am, having lost my keys.
Or the time I woke up in a Brixton police cell (drunk and disorderly). I started getting the shakes in the morning at the bitter end, so severely…
