Passed a family-centred day today. Skate park, planting things in the garden. Then got taken with a sudden urge to burn all the dead wood that’s accumulated over winter.

The kids were delighted to help, finding various pieces they could chuck in the brazier.

This led to the toasting of marshmallows, which is always a sign of imminent improvement.

With some sort of family meal being a feature of Sundays, the presence of a bottle of some description to accompany the food on the table has always seemed to add a certain civilised something.

Depending on the season, or the point in the drinking calendar, it might be something as basic as a bottle of beer, or cider. Really, though, that kind of ‘sensible’ drinking does not happen.

If it’s been a “long weekend” (see Thursdays), then a couple of beers might be considered essential maintenance, coasting towards Monday off because work, but needing the smoothing off of the edges.

If an especially special occasion – this being any one of a rolling sequence of arbitrary  justifications – it’d be a couple of beers for starters, plus wine. Stopping off at the garage on the way home to get supplies, even after deciding not to. Perhaps because of that. The starters might for variety be any leftover gins, or the pre-mixed cans of G&T as mentioned in previous posts. Maybe cava if it’s someone’s birthday.

Wine: generally red, generally two bottles, because one would get opened during food prep and then finished over food. A second bottle, depending on what time this was all happening, would likely as not be supplemented later, with a wander back up to the garage for more wine. The supermarkets may close at 4pm on a Sunday, but the Tesco garage is open until midnight, and sells drink.

As I type out this Sunday litany, it’s an odd mix of feelings. I mean, I am not horrified, amused, proud, ashamed… Maybe a cocktail of all those things, but putting it down on the page, it just kind of… is.

Well, was. I sat down to write this after a busy day doing things – work, family, leisure – and it honestly hadn’t occurred to me. The urge is still in abeyance, meaning the urge to have anything at all, never mind set off determinedly, after a bottle and a half of wine and several beers, to get more.

Yet abeyance means a pause, a temporary cessation, and I am aware of this, as I enjoy a surge of energy and enthusiasm. I am aware that the same strength and determination was behind that unavoidable swerve into the garage forecourt, an impulse equally thrilling, equally compelling.

It comes and goes. It’s in there, possible.