I have discovered gin

Strictly, rediscovered.

This delightful decoction I originally discovered, oh my brain forgive me, say 1982, aged in my twenties.

Isn't it a fantastically enervating drink? It is full of promises of skittish kittenish delight! A pure crystal sparkle with lemon, fizz, and ice.

And I stopped drinking the stuff. Because at some point, perhaps in my thirties, I became responsible. Maybe I found a sensible job. Maybe I became sober and serious. Maybe I knew there were children to deliver into the world. Maybe I had obligations, duties, loyalties. Gin became a momentary flash of a summer drink.

But now. The clock ticked round and now, starting into my fifties, I am rediscovering gin. The children are growing up. I want done with being sensible. I want to empty out those obligations. I am escaping life all nevermind putthekettleon, and here is gin! Gin. Gin is all heedless folly, delightful immaturity, and simple seductive enticement!

Well, the first one is. The second one, sadly, leads quickly to haveanotherone.

It is one divine drink that leads to folly. It starts off as a ticklish delight but quickly heads down the road of destruction.

The delight for me is obvious. It quickly provides a cushion for my brain. It is like sinking my head into a soft cloud of cotton wool. Gratefully. Better than morphine. I am a late aged female de Quincey discovering opium. It is enervating, relieving, cuddling. At some crucial tipping point, perhaps before the awareness of the sorrow, it is everything sublime.

Unfortunately, it is a cuddle with a vengeance. The third gin and tonic is one too far. The fourth is definitely filled with error, and who will drive me to hospital after the fifth?