Last week I had the joyous task of room-hunting in London. The majority of flatshares I came across online were looking for candidates who were “young professionals” (tick), “considerate” (tick), “tidy” (small tick) and “willing to socialise from time to time over a beer or glass of wine”. This is where I faltered.

I don’t drink, but I’m happy to live with people who do. Besides, in Britain I think it’s fair to say that “going for a drink” can easily be interpreted as another way of saying “being sociable”, so I decided to just go along with it.

At the end of my first viewing the women showing me around said: “You know, after a long day there’s nothing like curling up in front of the TV with a glass of wine, right?” I nodded a little too enthusiastically and wondered if I was lying. Was it disingenuous of me to not point out that I’d rather curl up with a cup of tea and would happily never drink wine again in my life?

I just didn’t have the energy for the conversation that inevitably follows, which usually goes like this:

Normal person who drinks: You don’t drink? That must be so hard. I couldn’t do that. How do you have fun?

Me: I’m really fun sober. Honest.

Normal person who drinks: But is it, like, a religious thing?

Me: Not really. I just don’t like the taste. Or the price. Or the feeling of being drunk.

Normal person who drinks: So you used to drink? You know you can just drink in moderation, right? Did you have a problem? Is that why you stopped drinking?

Me: I’m just a super-fun person who doesn’t drink.

I like myself sober. I like having a clear head and I like going out to live gigs, salsa nights and hip-hop events. And I’m not alone. A quarter of my fellow Londoners don’t drink, it’s increasingly common for young people to drink less, and campaigns such as Macmillan’s Go Sober for October are encouraging people to go booze-free in the name of charity. So why do I feel the need to reassure people that I’m not some sort of social reject? One reason is because it’s a really big part of British culture. The Queen Vic and the Rovers Return are etched in my mind as symbols from British popular culture, and I grew up watching Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps and Shameless, while listening to Mike Skinner say things like, “See I reckon you’re about an 8 or a 9/Maybe even 9 and a half in four beers’ time”.

Alcohol is not just a social lubricant in the UK, it’s often the central focus around which we make our social plans. I used to cater for weddings and I understood very quickly that alcohol was number one on the list of priorities during the planning, above the food, flowers or the cake. You can drop the cake but God forbid you drop the crate of champagne. I get it. Alcohol softens the edges and makes people more relaxed. I’m fine with that. In fact, I know several people who I definitely prefer after they’ve had a glass or two.

My grandma wanted to introduce me to the world of wine when I was a teenager and would share her fancy bottles with me in the hope that I would develop a taste for the good stuff. They say “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice”, so I imagined that red wine would taste something like concentrated Ribena. The first time I tried it I felt betrayed. I tried everything from Lambrini to Jack Daniel’s but by the time I went to university in Leeds the novelty had already worn off. When I was 21 I decided to just stop drinking altogether.

Surprisingly, some of my friendships faded after I stopped. Some friends were uncomfortable when they found out that I wasn’t drinking any more. They wanted to know why. Was I being radicalised? Did something happen to me? One guy actually asked me if I had been sexually assaulted after drinking, as if only a traumatic experience could explain my decision.

I hadn’t realised what an integral part alcohol had played in some of my relationships with people and how it had artificially amplified the connections that I’d felt. I stopped going to dingy student nights that sucked in a crowd with £1 shots, and saved my money up for live concerts. This gave me the time to discover the hidden gems of Leeds and Bradford: shisha lounges. I built lasting friendships on the sofas of my regular spot, where we could comfortably chat until the early hours with milkshakes and mint tea.

Not drinking hasn’t turned me into a social hermit, it’s just meant giving a little more thought to how I choose to spend my time. I still love going to the pub, even if it’s just for the chips, and I go to clubs for the music. For the record, I moved into a new apartment this weekend with three lovely ladies. There’s a cupboard stuffed with bottles of alcohol that they’ve kindly offered to share with me, but thankfully we’ve already found our common ground for socialising. It’s very British and we can all get involved: Sunday brunch.