A couple of days a week without drinking? Shouldn't be hard… Should it?

It is the time of the Janupause, the annual month without alcohol, in which the state of blissful co-dependency that exists between my wife and me is turned inside out. Instead of racing each other to the bottom of a bottle of white wine, we are playing mind games under the guise of being mutually supportive.

"I really don't miss it," my wife says, squeezing a lime into another glass of fizzy water.

"I don't either," I say. "I'm not finding it difficult at all."

"It's just boring," she says. So ends Day 1.

On Day 3, I read somewhere that an annual month-long detox is largely pointless and potentially harmful, especially if it encourages you to drink more the rest of the year.

"Apparently it's better to have two or three alcohol-free days a week, for ever," I tell my wife.

"I think I might prefer that," she says, finishing off the last of the ginger beer. "Let's do that instead."

"OK," I say, "but I haven't given up on giving up yet. I'm not finding it that difficult."

"No," my wife says. "Nor am I."

On Day 5 I have a 6pm meeting scheduled to take place, by prior arrangement, in a geographically convenient pub. I am nervous about it, for several reasons. "Just to warn you," I tell my wife, "I may have to drink at this thing."

"Oh," she says. "How weak."

"I haven't actually decided yet," I say.

One of the two people I meet at the pub orders a lime and soda, because she, too, isn't drinking for the month of January. I calculate that a pint of Guinness can't do me any harm, except in so far as its consumption will lead directly to the notion that another pint of Guinness can't do me any harm either. In the end I have both of them.

"How did it go?" my wife asks on my return. "Did you drink? You did, didn't you?"

"Look," I say, pulling a bottle of wine from a bag. "I bought you this."

As I'm pouring out two glasses, the oldest one walks into the kitchen.

"Not even a week," he says. "Pathetic."

"We are drinking," I say, "in accordance with the most up-to-date medical advice."

"This is actually better for us," my wife says.

"Cheers," I say.

The next day we are both feeling fuzzy and out of sorts. Before lunch we take the dogs for a walk.

"So we do Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…?" my wife says. "Every week?"

"At least," I say. "We could easily do Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday."

"Or Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday," she says.

"No," I say, "Friday we get wasted."

"What is that noise?" she says, looking up. I follow her eyes and listen, until I hear it, too.

"It's a woodpecker," I say, "but it sounds weird."

"Where's the tree?" she says. We walk towards the noise, until we are at the edge of the park, looking over the wall toward the railway line.

"There!" she says, pointing.

I see a tiny woodpecker perched near the top of a huge mobile phone mast. After a moment it drums its beak into the side of the pole with a sharp metallic report.

"Ow," I say, flinching.

The bird flies to a different part of the mast, higher up, and drills again. It sounds like the rapid-fire ring of a cracked bell.

"Why would you do that?" my wife says. "Just punish yourself over and over again for no reason?"

"Dunno," I say. "It must be a metaphor for something."

We wait in silence for the woodpecker to peck some more.

"Do we have any beer?" my wife asks. "We might need to stop and get some beer."