This is no time to be giving up the drink

A combination of self-loathing and self-pity made me decide to give up drinking for September.

I had arisen one Sunday morning to find a trail of my clothes dotting the flat from front door to bedroom like some kind of weird treasure map, and great blotches of eyeliner marking my pillow.

The night before had been spent at a riotous house party; I remembered trying to institute a game at 4am but everything after that was misty.

Enough was enough, I thought to myself while cradling a mug of sugary tea, September's a relatively peaceful month anyway.

I'll do plenty of detoxing yoga, I'll drink two litres of water a day and have velveteen skin. I might even read an improving book.

Except my theory about September was wrong; it's not quiet at all. On day one of abstinence, my sister called saying she was having supper at The Ivy — did I want to come too? Well, of course.

But I spat out the words "No thank you" to alcohol like a sulky child. Next evening came the GQ Man of the Year Awards (more champagne than there is water in the sea), the next night a restaurant opening, and so on. Torture, for the first few days at least.

But so long as you master that first "No thank you, I'm not drinking", it all becomes easier. Just try not to be pious, because I've noticed people tend to roll their eyes at each other.

On day five (so far, so sober), I had supper in Covent Garden with three friends. It was a Friday night and the words "bottle of house white" had fallen from Emma's lips almost before we sat down at our table. Thence began a debate about whether the other three could actually give up alcohol, even for a few weeks. "Of course you could," I said, "less of the Amy Winehouse act please." But did they want to? No. What's the point, they countered, if it's just a couple of glasses every night, or a few more on the weekend?

But the immediate difference can be seen in my bank account and around the hips. On an average week, my sums suggest that my alcohol spend (couple of nights in the pub, Friday night in a bar, long Sunday lunch in a restaurant) is around £50-£60. A cab home notches it up another £20 or so. Now I leap on to my bike and peddle home, wobble-free. Expense goes down, exercise quota up. My sleep has improved, too.

I've tripped up once because I was out on a date and a girl can hardly flirt on a glass of fizzy water. So it's celebration time today because it marks the halfway point of my dry spell. Charge those glasses, please. Perhaps I'll go mad and have an orange juice.