Okay. You got me. I say, “at some point” as though I cannot recall the point of loss with very near precision. In April of 2007, me and my handbag were travelling home in a cab on Melbourne’s Monash Freeway. You shall be spared further detail, as you are an SBS Foodie of whom I have become rather fond. Let’s just say that the long relationship between Helen, her handbag and a transport company was befouled that autumn night.
Now, don’t fret: this isn’t going to be a Moving Story about one woman’s struggle with addiction. Oh, no. I still . Just a very little, and rarely more than once a week. And, if you’re still worried, I did make amends with both driver and handbag. If you care to ask my handbag, this mess was an exception, now forgiven. But it was this exceptional mess that caused me to note that drinking more than one or two had become more pain than pleasure.
Now, this story does not, by any means, have a judgey-wudgey end. If you drink more than me, I will toast you with a , so long as you’ll sit by me at a bar. If you drink less than me, or if you , I will take care to welcome you to my table, where no dish was cooked in .
Making your own cordial (such as this strawberry and rose geranium flavour) is a DIY alternative to hard liquor.
No, this story has a practical end, which is to address the question: how in heck do those of who abstain a little, or a lot, manage Australia at this bubbly time of year?
There are plenty of people with plenty of plonk-avoidance training better than mine, of course. If you observe dietary tradition, for example, you likely have a whole vat of “no, thank you” techniques ready for your end-of-year do. One of these might be as simple and as honest as, “I never/rarely drink.” A noble person would say that.
I am not always a noble person. As my handbag can attest. So, I have a schooner full of dodgy tricks when I want to Just Say No.
The spirit of this season is social. It is also often soused. After two or four drinks, our colleagues or rellos may get Santa-level jolly and say, in that Anglo-Celtic Aussie way, “Caaaaarn. Have a bevvy!” Much of the time, they mean very well and seek only to bond through the medium of muscatel. They want to buy you one, or take you into their confidence per the terms of their particular culture.
Warmth between people is rare enough that we may not just want to out-and-out refuse such an offer. And, baby, that’s when we less-than-noble folk pull out the look of regret and shrug as we mumble, “antibiotics”. And, yes, I know you are likely to hear, “nah. That’s a myth!” It is not. There is a particular antibiotic than cannot be taken with alcohol, and if you don’t wish to party so hearty, learn its , as I have.
Skipping the alcohol - and people's judgments - is easier when you have some tricks you can rely on. Source: Alan Benson
Happy people who are drinking feel pity in the moment for those medically prevented from happy drinking. This small fib can be a big bonding win.
There are, of course, many other medical pretexts - allergy, diabetes, heart medication - and they all work well, so long as you think them through. If you say to someone with whom you will work long-term, “Oh, I’m pregnant”, for example, it is probably a good idea to be pregnant.
If you are a terrible liar, let carved citrus fruit, maraschino cherries, orange peel or other common drink garnish do the lying for you. Pop these in your water - best that it bubbles - or soft drink and keep your glass very full.
You can keep these in a small resealable plastic satchel all season. Or in your handbag. Providing you are still on speaking terms with your handbag.
Helen Razer is your frugal food enthusiast, guiding you to the good eats, minus the pretension and price tag in her weekly Friday column, . Don't miss her next instalment, follow her on Twitter .
