Since I started trying to conceive, I have developed an uneasy relationship with alcohol. Anyone who has read my book will know. There’s a fine line for me between the nectar of the gods and the hangover from hell. And this week I drank with the devil…
A little while ago, a wise friend tried to help me reframe the guilt I feel when I drink too much. He told me hangovers are the ‘punctuation of life’. Well, I’ve been at the Edinburgh Festival – there’s no place like it for late night revelry and one more round – and on Friday there wasn’t a comma or even a dot dot dot just a full stop to end all full stops. The day after, I dragged myself to Edinburgh’s legendary vegetarian restaurant, Henderson’s. I thought lentil lasagne was the kind of nutrition I needed. But after just a mouthful, I had to abandon it for a headlong flight to the toilet to be sick.
Witness to my ignominy was a woman with her daughter who was taking rather a long time to do a pee and wash her hands as children sometimes can. When I emerged from the cubicle, I apologised and the woman kindly said: ‘It’s fine, I was exactly the same when I had this one.’ She pointed to her daughter and in a split second I realised she thought I was pregnant. And in another split second I decided not to correct her.
Because surely a girl can drink and dream…?