Days Without Alcohol - 66. 301 more nights to the end of the year (remember I haven't had a drink since 30th December, so there was one extra day in the mix). It is too overwhelming to think of it like that and I am pretty certain that I will crack before then, but 100 days seems realistic. I am necking white wine in my dreams seemingly ever night and then only feeling slightly guilty when I remember what I am supposed to be doing. In last night's dream I realised two sips into a glass of wine, but then sensibly decided that I wouldn't go crazy. I would just finish the glass and then return to my quest. Luckily dream wine doesn't count. I am confident that I will continue for the short term, though Dublin is approaching and that was the night that at the beginning of the year I thought I would never get through without at least trying a pint of Guinness. But it would be a shame to come so far and then not even get into triple figures. And do I want to risk piling up all the weight that I have lost? One pint of Guinness won't do that, but it will lead to another pint and then another and the next morning I will wake up and require Irish firemen to hoist me out of bed and into my aeroplane.
I haven't been to the gym since I got ill and bizarrely this is the thing that I am perhaps missing most. It would be stupid to go at the moment, as I am still weary and even walking around knocks the stuffing out of me after a while, but it is frustrating to have been forced out of the habit. I would hope that after my weekend flits around the British Isles by plane I should be well enough for some gentle exercise.
This evening when walking back from Holland Park tube I heard a voice shouting my name. It was Al Murray passing in an executive cab. He offered me a lift (even though I was nearly home by now and I had to run a good couple of hundred metres to get to a point where the car could stop). Al was on his way home from a rehearsal for his TV show in a BMW, whilst I was ambling back from town, having had a coffee with a friend, with a low calorie sausage and mash meal in a plastic bag. He asked me about my tour and I said how pleased I was that numbers were gradually increasing year on year, I asked him about his show (which I have thoroughly enjoyed when I have caught it - he is very rude to his celebrity guests and my favourite moment was the band playing "Why do fools fall in love?" as Lembit Opik and his Cheeky Girl came on).
Our relative levels of success were bound to strike me. Al is now a proper TV star, whilst I can walk down the road from Holland Park with a low calorie ready meal in a plastic bag without anyone bothering me (apart from Al Murray). What is cool is that I think both of us are happy with our different lots. Neither of us would swap places with the other (though Al does like sausage and mash), but it's weird the way fortunes rise and fall. Five years ago I might have been envious or angry at my relative lack of success, but I have things a lot more in proportion now. I am also man enough to be happy when my friends are successful. It's not a competition. There are ups and downs in our chosen profession and I have learned that you must enjoy the successes while you have them and just ride out the low points. As long as I can afford sausages and mash then I am happy.
