It's the eighth day of my alcohol-free month. So far so good.
After work on Thursday I went to the pub and sat there quite happily drinking lime and lemonade while my workmates steadily got drunk. There is limit to how many soft drinks one can manage though – when I left I felt a little bit radioactive from all the sugar. I suppose there's always diet coke, but that comes packed with caffeine instead. I might have to do some research... Oh yeah, water.
Despite it being OK, I've not been back to a drinking establishment since. And this weekend I've felt a strange feeling that I've actually opted for a month of isolation. It seems – from ‘the outside’ – that the sole mission of the masses is to get pissed between Friday night and Sunday night, and if you’re not taking part then: “Sorry pal, you're on your own.”
Of course this isn't really the case, entirely. I could have gone to meet some friends on the common (but I knew they'd probably have been drinking all day) and I could have gone out to my mate's night at 93 Feet East last night (but the thought of a [very] crowded bar on a Saturday night without a few beers really didn't appeal). I just chose not to.
On the flipside I did do some useful flat-hunting research yesterday. I checked out some previously unexplored (by me, I mean) parts of Camberwell and now have a better idea of where I do and don't want to live. I also checked out a few properties, one of which looks promising.
Right, I'm off to have another highly productive day. Don't get too drunk, you lot.
I can't work out whether to be smug or jealous.