March 27th 2017 – home

What was supposed to be a brilliant weekend book-ended by lunch out with mum and then lunch over at the BIL’s had a definite slump in the middle. I was bad this weekend and the residual guilt to hard to shake off.

On Saturday, I took mum out for an early Mother’s Day lunch at the nice restaurant in the village. It was all very lovely; I had a Jerusalem artichoke risotto and she had a chicken dish. We each had two vodka, lime and sodas – so far, so civilised. It then seemed a good idea to invite her back to ours for a drink. It was sunny and, although still a bit nippy, nice enough to sit outside if we kept our coats on. Plus, Mr P was working on the loft and the thought of an afternoon yawning ahead of me whilst he banged about upstairs until we headed into town for the Miles Jupp gig seemed too dull to contemplate. So, mum and I shared a bottle of red. After that, she wisely decided to have a restorative cup of tea whilst I opened a second bottle. I thought Mr P seemed somewhat hesitant about the gig, but then he rarely gets excited by things like that coupled with his first motherless Mother’s Day looming, I assumed this might be paying on his mind as well.

Once in town, we nipped for a quick pint in one of the nicer pubs where I happened to bump into Mrs H’s parents who showed me some previously unseen wedding photographs but also, sadly, announced that she had lost the baby. Apparently, she was only about eight weeks pregnant but it was a blow, made even worse by the fact that they had to break the news after I had offered my congratulations at their impending grandparenthood.

From there, we headed to the Town Hall. I bought another glass of wine plus a JD and Coke for Mr P ensuring that the round was repeated for the interval. The last thing I remember is having a quick vape outside during the interval. Mr P explained that I fell asleep during the second half and then started muttering in my sleep before almost tripping over a disabled man as we left the auditorium. How embarrassing.

The following day, Mr P wasn’t angry as such, just disappointed and embarrassed which is truly worse than being bawled out, I think. I apologised, which is really all I could do by then, and although he appeared to soften, he was a bit iffy with me all day. He’s a master of the sulk but I think I deserved it in this instance.

In a bid to claw my way back into his good books, I’m going to take a booze break – at least until the weekend anyway, which will be a pretty impressive feat for me, if I manage it. I’ve been thinking about my drinking habits quite a lot recently as I fear I’m gaining an unfavourable reputation with regards to them: such as, my BIL making a casual, offhand remarks that “of course” I would want another drink and Mrs W’s friend saying that she could try and lure me to Mrs W’s baby shower with the promise of booze, as if I’m a sort of bitter, childless lush crouching in the the corner and refusing to take part in any of the stupid games. In my usual, slightly bleary Monday mode, this alcohol holidays seems like it will be a breeze however when I’m back to being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow, I’m not sure I’ll feel the same way.

Mr P said that, in hindsight, he wished he’d said he didn’t want to go to the gig, that I was far too drunk for it, as he thought this might’ve prompted me to sober up. It might have done or it might have caused an argument. Whatever the outcome of this week, I know that I will never again put Mr P in such a mortifying situation nor let him be the poor man pitied as he steers his addled wife to the nearest taxi rank.