From my first illicit sip of wine as a teenager, I’ve always been partial to a drink. The taste, the ritual of pouring a chilled glass at the end of the day, the convivial sparkle it brings to an evening with friends – I’m not ashamed to admit that I love it all.
Lately, though, I’ve begun to suspect the feeling isn’t mutual – booze does not love me. At 45, the pleasure I get from alcohol in the moment is often accompanied by a creeping sense that I’m paying for it elsewhere.
As a writer who works from home and the
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