On the wagon

'Twas a good day to climb aboard the ever moving wagon. I had slept in an odd way and had woken up with a neck that I couldn't turn without revolving my whole upper body. As I had dog training at seven it meant that my usual calling for a six o' clock snifter was never going to happen. Dog training was very stressful. If I had ever wanted to cut off a spaniels nose and sell it to Spanish pirates it was tonight! I arrived home at eight-thirty and prayed to God for the strength to stay out of the pub and not open the bottle of unopened red that was sitting on the shelf above the toaster. As Behan had always advised his faithful that it was wrong to drink upon a full stomach, I had fed myself a nine-minute microwave chicken dinner at six, hoping that it would do the trick. It wasn't enough. At eight-fifty I was ready for any amount of booze you could throw at me. After much agonising. I stayed in and ate two bowls of cocoa-pops and had a few cups of tea while watching spooks. I looked in my diary: I hadn't had a day without a drink for nine months. I was expecting a sleepless night full of night-sweats. I slept like a baby.