34 days – that’s over a month off, isn’t it? Go me.

Moving on in time, I still see a point in scratching away the little five bar gates on the wall here.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure about the value of carrying on. With the writing, I mean. The usual feelings of ‘who cares?’, the fact that even I don’t, to an extent… I mean, I am getting on with stuff, not dwelling on My Sober Life. It’s good, though. I like sitting at the keyboard bashing the pieces out. The posting is not so far too much of a hassle to maintain.

Riffling through some folders, though, in search of something suggestive, I found a diary note from about eight years ago. Hilarity. It’s the same stuff I’m writing about now, somewhat obviously. Looking back on it makes me smile kind of tiredly.

It’s all in the way that pretty much everything I feel dogmatically certain of, or at least excited enough to make note of, turns out a few years later to be ever so slightly at least 10mm of twist out.

Celebrating academic success, employment, friends’ weddings, solstice… one good reason after another. The weekend, the weekend starting early, the midweek hump, Monday horrors. It goes to way back before summer, back through spring, where each green shoot was worthy of a toast, to winter… back and back in a sequence of drinks, those wet circles linking back in an Olympic chain to a massive ring on the wall of the dungeon.
What I recognise in the continuing drinking, where the pint becomes two, becomes two-fer or three-fer bottles of wine, the false economics of alcohol dependency, is that I have still got my head fogged to an extent by fears of the past. Fear of past fuck-ups repeating themselves, repeated fears I have known in the past. The past like bad dreams, always a weird Holbein skull skewed, distorted, foregrounding the bleached bones in the green grass and purple heather. Rarely a view of the wider vista, the good things I can look back upon with contentment, that balance emerged from.

Taking control, I recognise this excited feeling, the very cells and atoms in my hands tingling with energy.

Stuck record. So, yeah, everything’s going well, good attainment there… but I will continue to notch the walls for now.

Keep my eyes wide open all the time, as someone once said.

First of the month, so I have spent the day attempting to dissuade children from pinching and punching each other in class. With little success or indeed enthusiasm, it tickles me to admit.

I’m not sure where “pinch and a punch, first of the month” came from – the wiktionary discussion about punch cups and snuff pinching seems plausible, but the phrase still seems more likely something invented by kids to enable random violence, especially factoring in the flicks and kicks.

It was always white rabbits in our family. It has become a little rite to wake up at the start of the month and find my mum has sent a text saying “White rabbits”, to which I habitually respond “Brown bunnies”. This is a whimsical family variant that sets us up nicely for the next few weeks, thank you very much.

And of course, it’s a leap year, so we have extra February.