This is how Sherlock Holmes describes a problematic situation requiring complete silence, isolation and deep thought for at least fifty minutes.

I used to put my own special spin on this approach. Three months ago yesterday would have been at least a one bottle of wine day, probably starting off with an extremely large gin and tonic just to get the ball rolling.

After a tough (mostly due to hormones) day I would have justified reaching for the booze as the only thing that could soothe me. More accurately, anaesthetise me. After an initial rush of oblivion I would have kept going to try and capture the feeling. I would have collapsed into bed and woken up this morning feeling absolutely dreadful.

God, I don’t miss hangovers. If I close my eyes I can bring back the feeling now. Head. Stomach. Bleargh.

Yesterday I cried. Quite a lot. Down-graded my expectations of what I would achieve to the bare minimum. Sad-texted my husband who gave me lots of hugs and spoiling when he got home. Emailed Belle who always makes me chortle with her replies.

I am wondering whether when I am feeling most scared, most weak, is actually when I am being most brave? Feeling low, doing this shit anyway?

My new three pipes: hot bath, clean sheets, early bed.

Today there will be sober flowers.

“Here. Sober treat. I’ll call you later.”

Today I am still sober.

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