Illustration: Lo Cole

I have swapped the pub for a church hall and Styrofoam cup of coffee. My life is better than it's ever been, but the A-bomb causes great consternation among my middle-class, twentysomething London friends. To not drink, that very British of endeavours, is tantamount to social suicide. People have asked if I'm pregnant, hungover, or I've lost my mind? I grit my teeth and remind myself that those who care most are the ones who shouldn't be drinking either. In my drinking days I regarded teetotallers as pariahs, too.

Low-level, institutionalised alcoholism is rife in this country. Can't contemplate Friday night without a gram of coke and five bottles of wine? You're not alone. It feels as though my generation is becoming immune to the warning signs. On the outside, I had all the trappings of a privileged life in London but in reality, by the time I was 26, I had lost three jobs, had two abortions and been admitted to a mental health unit where I was diagnosed with a personality disorder.

I felt as if I had landed on the moon when I first stopped drinking; I had no idea how to communicate without alcohol. I recently attended a wedding three months sober and spent most of the time chain-smoking in the portable toilets, wishing I was plastered enough not to notice how boring everyone was. And wishing everyone would stop asking why I wasn't drinking.

It's time for it to be acceptable to have a lemonade on a Saturday night.

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