Just over a week ago I found myself making a resolution that I've previously always rejected on the grounds that it is, well ... incredibly sensible. I've never been all that attracted to bald reason, or its close cousins, prudence, moderation and restraint; they remind me far too much of the winter of 1993, spent holed up in a musky sixth form classroom discussing Thomas Gradgrind's love of facts, and silently reflecting that Charles Dickens had been absolutely bloody right to name his novel Hard Times.
I can recognise that something sensible might be of value - that it might be a good idea to file all my receipts on a monthly basis, for instance, to save time when it comes to my tax return - but somehow the thought never quite gains traction, and the receipts pile up until I am buried under an avalanche of financial ephemera come January. Ideas of great sacrificial acts of self-discipline often pop into my head, whether veganism, daily workouts or giving up Diet Coke, and then roll clean away, like water off an Edam rind. I guess that's why I'm writing a diet column.
But there I was, the Sunday before last, sitting on the sofa, hungover, bleary eyed, watching the run-up to the Olympic closing ceremony. This involved a compilation of the games' greatest hits: Rebecca Adlington powering through the pool, Chris Hoy pounding around the velodrome, Michael Phelps beating all comers (and a Cuban taekwondo competitor doing the same - although in his case the comer was a referee, and the beating involved a kick to the poor guy's head that was as shocking and violent as a lion goring a gazelle).
As I watched, I was flooded with memories of the Sydney Olympics closing ceremony eight years ago. That Sunday, I recalled, I was similarly hungover, and was staying at a friend's house, having spent the previous evening downing cocktails with her, to such an extent that the six debit-card receipts in my wallet started out with a strong, clear signature, and ended up inscribed with my shaky initials. As my friend and I sat watching TV in her front room, I was in an obstreperous mood (think Veruca Salt with a sore head), right up until the appearance of some prawns on bicycles and Kylie Minogue in an enormous pink feathered headdress singing Dancing Queen. At that point, of course, I snapped out of it. I may have been hungover; I wasn't a complete churl.
Watching the spectacle in Beijing eight years later, I realised that while Rebecca Adlington had spent the intervening eight years honing her front crawl, Chris Hoy had been developing his thigh muscles, and Michael Phelps had been turning himself into a giant human fish, I had also been pushing my body to the limits. In that same period I had partied and pubbed until my alcohol tolerance had reached hitherto unforeseen heights. Sure, I hadn't been getting up at 5am to start training - my alcohol intake tended to start at least 14 hours after that, thank God - but I had certainly put in a good few hours and some sterling effort.
The fact that I had been hungover for the closing ceremony of the Sydney Olympics and this most recent one wasn't because I particularly like gargantuan carnivals of athletic brilliance, and therefore have to drink destructively through the knowledge that it is all over for another four years. It is because I have often been hungover at weekends. With a shock, I suddenly realised that the thought of drinking was much more intrinsically dull than the thought of not drinking at all.
So when my boyfriend arrived home, I announced that I was going to stop drinking until Christmas. "If you try to do that," he said, "you'll get to day three, think, 'God, I've got ages to go' and chuck it all in." I blinked sadly at his psychological acuity. "Let's both just do it for a month," he said, and I agreed (while crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping I can keep it up at least until the party season).
So far, it's been surprisingly easy. Which is a relief, since it's only been a week, and if that had been a struggle the jig really would have been up. It's also proving very beneficial for my diet - I'm not chugging down all those liquid calories; I'm not chugging down all those hangover carbs; and the self-discipline of not drinking seems encouragement not to gorge or poison myself in other ways too.
True, I haven't faced the test of an enormous party yet, and I can see that that will be a hive of temptation (although I also remember a gathering a few years back at which I was uncommonly sober, and the satisfaction that went with the thought that, for once, I wouldn't be the one walking around with my skirt tucked into my knickers). I was worried that it would be difficult to give up the habit of drinking a few glasses of wine at the end of an especially stressful day at work, but, weirdly, it's been OK. It's almost as if I've grown some willpower.
In fact, it seems that despite all my previous protestations, the sensible decision - the decision that involves sobriety rather than carousing; flat shoes rather than pink headdresses - can sometimes be the right one. How annoying is that?
