We’re speaking to people all over the UK (and abroad) about how a good deal they, in reality, drink. Not how they inform their health practitioner they drink or a rough guesstimate – but the objective boozy truth. This week we were given a 19-year-old version of a poet from London, who we’ve referred to as Scarlett. Friday, I’m returning from a retreat in France, where I spent two weeks recovering after my first-year university exams. I have multiple glasses of pink wine at the aircraft; they’re loose, so it’d be not nice now not to. My boyfriend picked me up from the airport and took me to
dinner. I’d have long gone home to change; however, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. We proportion a bottle of wine at the restaurant, then returned to his area. He prefers staying there because it’s much larger than my flat. Saturday, I sleep till around 1 p.m. as I want quite a little sleep to recharge – I find that unique people want exceptional amounts, and I’m simply someone who benefits from 12 hours of sleep. We’re hosting a night meal in my boyfriend’s region, so I spend the afternoon preparing the food. I want to be writing. However, he doesn’t cook dinner, so I must make the food.
I even cook meat for his buddies regardless of being a vegetarian because I love him. His friends are plenty older – as is he – so I experience as I must galvanize them. I even have three glasses of wine over dinner and one glass of champagne because I don’t need to be under the influence of alcohol and embarrass him. Sunday: My boyfriend has time with his youngsters these days, but they don’t like me to sign up for them as they’re judgemental of the connection. I head again to my flat. I haven’t been domestic for weeks, so it’s no longer in an excellent country.
