Black Sheep

I don't know if it's the result of being sober, or my age, or my recent brush with possible death, but I've been affected more by the signs of Spring this year than ever before.

The branches laden with blossom, daffodils in the hedgerows and newborns in the fields all strike me as unbearably poignant.

We're in Scotland for Easter, and the field at the back of the house is filled with tiny, Instagram-worthy, frisky little lambs.

They're all snow white except one, who's jet black from the tip of his tiny nose to the end of his twitchy tail.

I'm with you, buddy.

I've always felt an affinity with the black sheep. I've always seen myself as a rebel. I've always wanted to colour outside the lines, push the boundaries, break the rules and ignore the government guidelines.

One thing I still struggle with about being sober is the thought of being too good.

But then I looked at all the lambs playing in the field and I thought if those are a bunch of people out on a Friday night, then which one is the black sheep? Which is the outlier, the rebel, the individual?

It's me. It's us. It's those of us brave enough not to drink when everyone else is.

So, feeling reassured that I've still got 'it', I went to the fridge for a Beck's Blue and spotted the redcurrant jelly and mint sauce, all ready for the traditional Easter leg of lamb.

What do you think the family would say to a nice nut roast?

Happy Easter to you all,

SM x

Hope, and Marianne Faithfull

Yesterday we did the long drive to Scotland - the land of wide horizons, untamed landscapes and Mr SM's forefathers.

Thanks to the modern miracles that are Bluetooth and Spotify, #1 and I have created a new tradition for road trips.

She plays me the latest 'yoof' tunes (I like to imitate my own parents by rolling my eyes, harrumphing and saying you call this dreadful racket music? While secretly enjoying it).

I then play her my favourite songs from my own 'yoof', a few of which have made it to hallowed places on her iPhone playlist.

One of these, which we were listening to yesterday, is Marianne Faithfull's Ballad of Lucy Jordan.

I idolised Marianne. Marianne, with the face of a fallen angel, and the voice that smoked a thousand cigarettes.

I always saw myself as a rebel (see my post: Rebel Without a Cause), and Marianne was the Queen of all Rebels, who all we wannabe rebels knelt down to and worshipped.

While I might get myself arrested after finals for being drunk in charge of a bicycle, Marianne was arrested during a drunks raid while tripping on acid with Mick Jagger, naked and wrapped in a fur rug.

(She has always vehemently denied the oft repeated rumour that there was a Mars Bar involved).

As we listened to The Ballad of Lucy Jordon, the story of a housewife who, on realising that she'll never achieve her dreams, goes crazy and is carted off in an ambulance (to hear it click here), I thought about how addiction strips away hope.

At the age of 37
She realised she'd never ride
Through Paris in a sports car
With the warm wind in her hair....

Marianne battled many demons.

She spent much of the 1970's (having lost custody of her son) living rough in Soho, an alcoholic and heroin addict, with anorexia thrown into the melting pot.

By the 1990s, she'd managed to quit the drugs, but was still drinking, despite being diagnosed with Hepatitis C, and then breast cancer (see, we have so much in common!)

Interestingly, while I visualise my demons as the 'wine witch', Marianne sees hers as 'Marianne Faithfull' - the public persona.

She says It is actually my name. It is me. But it hasn't felt like me for a long time.

What has happened in the past 10 years or so, and what has been my goal for as long as I can remember, is to bring me and Marianne Faithfull into some semblance of harmony.

It was her doing drugs and drinking, her inside my head, so it has been tough. The Fabulous Beast, that's what I call her.

Marianne's story, and the fact that even she, finally, beat the Fabulous Beast, and is now completely sober, and - she says - happier than she's ever been, shows that you should never be Lucy Jordon.

Never relinquish hope.

(One of her favourite quotes is from William Blake: The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom, and perhaps Marianne has finally made it there.)

And it is never too late to ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in your hair. At 37, 47, or even 87.

I'm going to book the tickets, and #1 wants to come with me...

Love SM x

Positive Choices

Day 92. Rhymes with Woohoo!

I was reading the Sunday Times yesterday, and found, on the first page of the Magazine, an article by one of their columnists - Katie Glass - entitled 'Here's to the most outrageous thing I've ever done: giving up drinking.'

Annoyingly, I can't post a link, because you have to be a subscriber (what happened to sharing nicely, guys?).

Katie talks about giving up alcohol for a month. She says "Things I discovered while not drinking: I am a morning person. I am not the Best Dancer Ever. Most thrilling: it turns out there's nothing I did drunk I can't do sober."

She also talks about the 'pink cloud.' She writes '...after a week or so, something new: I began to feel a deep sense of happiness, so euphoric, I didn't mention it to anyone, because it's so bloody smug....Still, there it is. A dreamy bliss, at times so overwhelming, it hits my stomach in a sheer rush of joy like going down on a swing.'

(Going down on a swing sounds a bit pornographic to me, but that's just my warped mind).

On the negative side, she says '...being so predictable reminds me why I liked drinking so much. Because you can open a bottle without knowing where it will lead - a bar, a book, an overdrawn credit card, a flight...' and reflects on a quote by Goethe: "A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days."

But, she concludes, 'eventually, even being bad gets boring. Saturday night - pub, club - becomes predictable too. And now binge-drinking is ubiquitous, staying sober feels a more outrageous thing to do.'

Thank you, Katie - who has, for the time being, decided to stay sober - for presenting sober as the individual, rebellious choice.

I posted the same thought a while ago in 'Rebel Without a Cause', and one of my much loved regular readers, Tallaxo, posted this comment recently: I never really followed the crowd and liked to be a little different, so that's the way I look at sobriety. It is kind of unique because so few people are doing it. I even have a silly grin on my face as I'm paying for my non-alcoholic pear cider at the Tesco checkout. It's a kind of 'look at me. Who's the clever one now?'

Because of years of marketing and brainwashing we are conditioned to see 'sober' as being something that some poor unfortunates are forced into doing because they are sick. It's up to people like Katie Glass, and all of us, to change that. To present it as a positive lifestyle choice.

I have - finally - started to tell people that I've stopped drinking. I don't tell them it's forever (as that makes them uncomfortable in the same way it used to make me uncomfortable), but I tell them that, having given up initially 'for Lent,' I felt so much better that I'm carrying on.

I tell them that I sleep better, I'm losing weight, my moods are better and I have more energy. Then they start to look at me with admiration rather than pity.

Most of the people I've come across since starting this blog never reached 'rock bottom.' We didn't have to stop drinking. We hadn't (yet) got to the point where our families and friends intervened. We hadn't lost our homes, our children, our health.

Most of us weren't even physically dependant and didn't need rehab. We chose to stop drinking because it was the better choice. We saw the road branching ahead of us and took the right turn.

The more we can shout about the benefits of sober, the more people will get off the elevator before it hits the bottom.

So thank you Katie, and thanks to all of you.

Love SM x

Rebel Without a Cause

I've always seen myself as a bit of a rebel.

I never liked rules, or rather I liked them being there so they could be broken. Drinking and smoking fitted neatly into the image I had of myself.

I was at a very famous, extremely traditional, girls' boarding school. Don't feel sorry for me - I loved it. So many opportunities to be naughty.

In my final year my bedroom led onto a flat roof. My friends and I used to climb over my desk and through the window late at night in order to huddle in the gale force winds (we were on a cliff) smoking. I was, literally, the gateway to rebellion.

In my final exam term I would loan out my revision notes in exchange for bottles of Martini or Southern Comfort. I liked the idea of drinking more than the actual drink itself at that point.

Most of my best friends from that time, and the next twenty years, were the people I met huddled in groups smoking, or the last ones at a party playing drinking games.

I chose my career (advertising) because it seemed like the antithesis of a 'sensible' job. There was a bar in the office. You could smoke everywhere. You were expected to be a bit wild.

The early 1990s were party days. I worked hard and played hard. I burned the candle at both ends, and in the middle.

We spent weekends camping in fields at impromptu festivals, and at clubs like The Cross, The Fridge and The Ministry of Sound. I was intimately acquainted with dawn over the city, and sometimes slept on the sofa in my office since there seemed no point in going home.

Then, nearly 15 years ago, I quit smoking. It took me a while to adjust the image I had of myself to exclude the constantly present cigarette - the badge of rebellion (as I saw it), the smoky haze of mystery and promise. But I still had my drink...

And, until 69 days ago, when I was feeling boxed in and squashed - a boring old, podgy, middle aged housewife, alone at home with the chores - I'd pour myself a glass of chilled Sancerre, turn the music up loud and dance, thinking "yeah baby, she's still got it."

And now it's gone. My last remaining vice. My final rebellion. And I am a sober, skinnier, middle aged housewife.

What next? I know all about cross addictions. The last thing I want (or need) is an internet porn habit, bulimia or an online bingo addiction. So here's how I try to see it...

If eighty percent of the adult UK population drink, then who's the rebel? Who's zigging while the others are zagging? Who's at the frontier, pushing the boundaries?

I am, my friends, and so are you. We are the new It Girls (and boys, Tallaxo!), not the drinkers, copping out on being properly present in their own lives. So stick that in your bong and smoke it.

Plus, this little blog is my own private rebellion, my subversive secret.

Sometimes when one of the other mummies asks what I'm up to I say "oh, I've started writing a blog."

"Really? Does anyone read it?" they ask incredulously.

"Oh yes, thousands of people, all over the world. From India and China to the Ukraine, Antigua and Oman - all over the place."

"What's it about?" they ask, agog.

"Oh, this and that. Nothing kinky or illegal," I reply enigmatically, and walk off.

Still a rebel.

Love SM x