I never felt this conspicuous when I was buying proper gin

Three weeks into Sober October and I am still managing to stay off the sauce. I’ve been watching closely for those changes the internet told me I would see as soon as I dropped my daily commitment to wine o’clock.

Am I sleeping better? I think so. At least I’m always making it to bed now rather than dropping off in front of something Scandi on NetFlix. Clear-skinned? Nope. But the internet assures me that the spots on my chin, a crop the size and scale of which I haven’t seen since I was taking my GCSEs last century, is a sign my body is getting rid of toxins. Weight loss? Definitely not. Not a gram (or perhaps it is ounces again now that we’ve “taken back control”).

I have replaced alcohol with chocolate. For a start, I find it helps to take away the taste of the alcohol-free alternatives I’ve been drinking instead of reaching for the gin. Knowing that I would not get through so much as a week if the only alcohol-free drink I had to hand was #Yne – my biggest client at Bella Vista PR – I stocked up on the competition. Anything had to be better than #Yne’s beetroot-based cabernet substitute.

I went wild in the soft drinks section at Sainsbury’s, scooping up three bottles of herbal infusions that were touted as dead ringers for gin, vodka and Campari. I exited via the self-service till, where I discovered that, while none of the drinks I wanted was a restricted product, they still required an age check.

A young woman slouched across to confirm that I was old enough to buy the three bottles arrayed in the bagging area. I was sure I detected a slight scowl as she studied my face before applying the magic key that would allow me to pay and go.

“They’re not real drinks,” I felt compelled to tell her. She didn’t respond. She was already on her way to assist the man two tills to my left, who had accidentally rung up a box of muesli thrice.

I bagged my bottles and scurried from the store, clinking as I went, suddenly certain that everyone who saw me thought I was on my way to Tooting Common to find a nice bench to have a kip on. Funnily enough, I’d never felt that way when buying real gin.

It would be harder to resist a drink drink if there were anyone to go to the pub with. As it is, I am still the only person going into the office – on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays – with everyone else claiming some Brexit-related shortage reason why they can’t make it in to west London.

Even Bella the boss claims she’s stranded in her leafy enclave. During the height of the petrol crisis, she got so desperate that she filled her petrol car with diesel because that’s all her nearest garage had. She’s on a waiting list for a triage call with a mechanic. She’s got the fear about coming in by public transport since her bout of Delta. I suspect she will miraculously overcome that fear during her stepson’s half-term holiday next week.

On the subject of shortages, the residents of my street have been getting some early practice for the rolling blackouts we’ve been promised by Christmas. Or has BoJo promised there won’t be blackouts for Christmas? It amounts to pretty much the same thing, I suppose. Anyway, my street has suffered several power outages in the past fortnight.

The suspected culprit is my neighbour Brenda’s enormous new freezer, which is too big to go in her house. It’s too big to go inside any house really. Investigation of the freezer’s make and model number suggests that Brenda bought it from a manufacturer that usually supplies farm shops and small supermarkets.

The freezer has been standing in her front garden, like a great white megalith, plugged in through her living room window via a complicated arrangement of ancient extension leads. There have been rumblings on the street WhatsApp group. Without naming names (or mentioning freezers) a couple of my neighbours have been discussing how one might get the council to “remove a dangerous eyesore” from the street.

“What’s she keeping in there anyway?” our new postie Jason asked when he dropped off a letter from my goddaughter, Tory Caroline, who’d copied me in on an admiring missive to Rishi Sunak. That reminded me to put in an order for a Rishi Sunak hoodie for her birthday.

Feeling a strange sense of loyalty, I told him the truth. “Just food. The news headlines have been scaring her stiff.”

“Man,” Jason sighed. “The media’s got a lot to answer for. Scaring the old people to get clicks. I blame them for the petrol shortage.”

I nodded.

“But you’re OK, aren’t you? You’re not worried?”

Hang on. Was he including me in “the old people”? It was worse than when the Lib Dems rang me up during lockdown one, telling me that they were checking on the “elderly” in the constituency. At least they hadn’t seen my face.

I was glad when Brenda came out of her front door and scuttled across to mine. She looked up and down the street, as if checking for spies, before asking if she could come in. She was obviously in distress.

“Someone has made a complaint to the council,” she said. “They’re coming to look at my freezer this afternoon and check that it isn’t contravening any health and safety or planning regulations. I can’t believe it, Trudy. Who would have gone to the council behind my back?”

The suspects were numerous but I bit my tongue rather than suggest that she start by listing the people she’d lectured on Covid compliance since the pandemic began. All I could say with certainty was that it wasn’t me.

“I’m sure everything will work out,” I promised her thought it felt a bit like we were living through the inciting incident of an episode of Midsomer Murders.