The more garish, the better
Three years ago, I became sober for a year – despite the best efforts and influence of a good friend and esteemed colleague who shall remain nameless (Zoe Williams). There were a lot of things I noticed about going from someone who rocked into the office, mossy-tongued and permanently hungover, to booze-free. The most obvious three were: time; money; energy. All of these beneficial changes – I had more of all of them – contributed to two things I suddenly became enamoured with, having shown little interest in them before. Those things are hard house and trance music (previously my idea of please God, no) and trainers.
While friends spent their mornings under duvets in the foetal position, I was up if not quite with the larks, then early enough to plan my day, stretched out ahead of me like a map. I started to walk around the city, discovering tiny side streets the width of a horse-drawn carriage. This satisfied my increased time and energy (as did the new love of house music), and the money I previously directed to my liver found a new home on the soles of my feet.