This Christmas, while most people drink themselves stupid and end up lying beneath bunches of wilting mistletoe singing off-key renditions of Santa Claus is Coming to Town, I shall be knocking back cases of sparkling mineral water with merry abandon and swinging from the branches of my in-laws' Christmas tree. Once a wild child, always a wild child.

This will be my ninth sober Christmas. It is the first I have looked forward to since I stopped drinking. It is about time. For too long, I have dreaded the festive season as a time when I have felt like a steak tartare tossed into shark-infested waters. Like any recovering alcoholic, one of the biggest lessons of my sobriety has been learning to have fun without a 100 degree proof bloodstream. For the first few years, I was the cliched uptight, shy, stiff, tongue-tied, wet blanket in the corner, a picture of chemical deprivation checking my watch every 30 seconds to see if I was any closer to escaping whatever bash I was trapped at. Slowly, things have become easier.

I have developed a whole bag of tricks: at a party I drink cranberry juice because it looks like red wine or ginger ale on the rocks because it looks like whisky - this way I don't have to explain why I am not drinking. At a lunch or dinner I discreetly corner the cook upon arrival and ask which dishes contain alcohol, and then edit the menu accordingly. I turn down invitations to go to pubs, bars or clubs because experience has taught me that I always end up feeling left out. I have survived several office parties either by telling colleagues that I am taking antibiotics for an ear infection or by driving even if the venue is two minutes from my home because the "I'm driving" excuse has no comeback.

If I get a craving for a pint of Guinness I go out for a run because nothing chases away drink cravings like exercise. Out for dinner, as soon as I sit down I turn my wine glass upside down so the waitress won't fill it. On New Year's Eve I don't go to Trafalgar Square as I always end up drenched in champagne, freaking out about the possibility of osmosis triggering a relapse. Last but not least, I have recently fallen into a habit of saying bluntly, "I'm drinking orange juice because I'm a recovering alcoholic" whenever someone asks why I am not drinking, a response that, though oddly empowering, tends to result in much coughing and rattling of cutlery.

So there you have it, the sober Christmas survival kit. Now I feel ready to have fun in a new way. I have come to realise that learning sobriety is like learning a foreign language. My wife and I are learning Hebrew and as we try to get used to the alien words, wrestle with unfamiliar pronunciation and generally make fools of ourselves, I am reminded of early sobriety: how I found my feet, overcame the awkwardness, got frustrated, toughed it out, improvised, and eventually, as if by magic, fluency brought confidence and a new sense of belonging in the world.

For this gift of sobriety, I will always be thankful. On Christmas Eve I will drop into a church and sit for a while, meditating on the wonderful pain of alcoholism. I will light a candle for my sobriety and it will shiver and struggle. Then I shall walk home to dinner with my wife and her parents, pour a glass of mineral water and wish all the others like me a Merry Christmas.

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