My glass is not half empty. But it's no longer half full. My cup definitely doth not runneth over. It hath not even got wet for eight weeks.
The first month was okay. Fun, even. Lots of people were doing it. Lots of people were talking about it. Money was being raised, blogs were being written. It all felt, a little, well, less tedious than it does now.
I'm in the bit where the novelty has worn off and everyone starts planning the good times, getting ready for the summer and remembering how to enjoy life. The bit when everyone starts drinking and socialising again and I don't. It's okay, I expected all this. I also expected I wouldn't enjoy it. I'm not.
But I do take a certain pleasure in not enjoying things. After all, I was a teenager once. The masochistic, self-denying element feels quite racy. I said before it's like trying someone else's personality on for size. If you live that personality for long enough, do you become it?
I was having a working lunch with my daughter in Costa earlier this week (we were planning how best to approach her mental maths shopping homework ahead of an assault on Sainsbury's), when my brother-in-law strolled by.
We discussed our forthcoming joint family holiday in France. "Looks like I'll be drinking those lovely whites and reds by myself" he said, faintly disappointed.
"Yeah" I said, faintly disappointed. We changed the subject.
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