Better with Bouillon

A woman bitterly attempts Dry January in the wake of New Year's.

January 2nd, 1996

• Throw vodka out.

January 3rd, 1996

• For Real This Time.

January 4th, 1996

We cannot wind up like Gran. Eighty year-old woman blacked out, floating in her pool at her birthday party ← bad.

Sounds like fun though.

January 5th, 1996

Just to be clear, we’re fine. Flawless. Fab. Nothing to indicate we’ll wind up blacked out, floating in a pool at our eightieth birthday party. But a month-long-stay-away from the good stuff will help “ground” us. Or whatever load of shit Freddie used to say before he dumped us for someone with a sensible hair color.

January 6th, 1996

Went out for after-work drinks. Did not drink. Did not die.

January 7th, 1996

Was wrong. Want to die.

January 8th, 1996

Packed myself a tuna fish sandwich for lunch, (smell is much more pleasant when not nauseous in the morning.)

January 9th, 1996

Ran into Freddie who looks too pleased with himself. Must get to a salon soon. Didn’t buy gin on the walk home.

January 10th, 1996

Very clear now that not drinking has not stopped me from being wildly annoying at work.

Note to self: keep voice down. Also, not everything is funny. Also, also, everything you say isn’t always funny.

January 11th, 1996

Missing Freddie.

January 12th. 1996

Sometimes it feels like everybody is good at the ordinary bits but me. Cannot imagine being good at grocery lists and knowing how to sear a fish. The seafood section of the grocery store gives me stage fright— Or whatever the equivalent is when you can’t remember why on earth you might prefer tilapia over salmon. Fish fright?

“Hello, good man. Tell me, what’s hot in ‘fish’ right now?” God I’m a lunatic.

Maybe I’ll ring Mum and tell her how good I’ve been doing with the no drinking thing. Maybe I’ll just cut a fringe again instead?

• Buy a comb.

January 13th, 1996

Starting to think the fringe suits me. Didn’t do too bad of a job.

• GO. TO. SALON.

January 14th, 1996

Was feeling brave and stopped by Lou’s birthday party. Massive mistake. Ran into Freddie near the profiteroles. Left early.

January 15th, 1996

Starting to think the fringe is an issue.

January 16th, 1996

What’s so great about going drink-free? All this effort for what? So that everything can be sharp at the edges with no pause or breaks?!

January 17th, 1996

Made some soup. Was shit because I didn’t have any bouillon.

January 18th, 1996

Maybe Gran has it right.

January 19th, 1996

January 20th, 1996

January 21st, 1996

January 22nd, 1996

Caved. Made a whisky sour on the 19th. Made six more. Called Freddie. He told me not to call him anymore. I think he misses me.

Woke up with something crusting in my hair.

• Really, truly must go to the salon.

January 23rd, 1996

Double caved. Rang mum. Drunk rang mum. Finally told her Freddie left. She said the dreaded words, “Well isn’t this just like you, Piper. He was a good one.” IknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknow!!!!

January 24th, 1996

Finally tossed the whiskey down the drain. Wish I could throw myself down the disposal with it. Wouldn’t be a bad way to go really. Maybe they’ll let me do a story at the paper about the dark underbelly of the u-bend.

January 25th, 1996

• Buy bouillon.

January 26th, 1996

I started all this because of Gran’s big eightieth. Because on the day I had the briefest moment where I thought it was cool. Rebellious. Funny. Classic Leo she is. I was proud I saw a bit of myself in her lanky floating body—Only without the moo-moos.

But the thing is. If you catch her before noon she’s viciously sad even though I think all she’s ever wanted was to laugh everything off. But even when she laughs I can see how Puppa was unkind to her growing up. In the pool she looked shockingly little. Maybe it was the years she wasted making cabbage soup, cottage cheese on tomato– obsessing over that ridiculous book Dine Out and Lose Weight: The French Way to Culinary Savoir Vivre. I’ve told Gran she’s already a smoker, what's with the extra reading? Mitterrand should have her on his payroll, as like a brand ambassador or something.

Dad had to actually go in the pool and drag her out. He doesn’t drink when we’re visiting Gran. He doesn’t come out and say it but I think we’ve all sort of noticed. Freddie was always saying that it seems like Dad doesn’t trust her to be left alone, maybe he was right about that. Left to her own devices she could’ve hit her head, or let that fab white bob sink a little too low and start taking in water by mistake. I saw Dad standing there on the lawn while everybody else egged her on. I egged her on.

But there was Dad, still and tense. He looked the parent, that’s what I thought. I couldn’t take my eyes off that little crease in between his eyebrows, well worn like one of the archeology digs he did before he herniated a disk in ‘82. How have I managed to fuck things up with a dad like that?

“Come on party girl,” Is what Dad said when he eventually waded into the water in his trousers and loafers. He didn’t think twice at his favorite watch getting wet.

Freddie and I got into a fight on the car ride home. Freddie told me that’s where I was headed. I told him he was doing a seriously good Anthony Hopkins impression. He gave me an ultimatum. I told him to go fuck himself.

He packed up his things that night. By the time I called him up saying I could be open to potentially cutting out the drinking for a bit to show him, really show him, that I’ve got things perfectly under control he had already started going with whatshername. As horrid as I am I always thought I’d be tough to replace.

I was probably sloshed until Christmas. I couldn’t get Gran’s floating little body out of my head. I’d think of her while lying awake at night. Instead of counting sheep I’d count little old ladies who have too much fun for their own good. But you know, new year, new me and all that. Tricky part is that all I want is a drink.

January 27th, 1996

• ¼ cup of olive oil

• 1 onion

• 2 shallots (shellfish?) kind of onion!!

• 4 cloves of garlic

• 2 carrots

• 2 celery stalks

• 3 cans of cannellini beans drained and rinsed (surely that’s too many beans)

• 2 bay leaves (?? ring mum)

• 1 teaspoon Italian seasoning.

• ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes

• 5-6 cups vegetable broth

• ½ teaspoon sea salt

• ½ teaspoon black pepper

• 3 cups of spinach

January 28th, 1996

Had Mum round for soup. She said that it was pretty good even if the beans had gone a bit soft. I told her nobody wants a hard bean.

She apologized for what she’d said on the phone. The bit about me making a mess of things with Freddie and “how that’s just like me.” Told her that I’m trying to quit drinking. Don’t know why I said that.

January 29th, 1996

I stopped by Freddie’s café. Can’t believe I ever thought that was a good idea. This is why people shouldn’t ditch their girlfriends when they start seeing someone because girlfriends are the people who stop you from doing this kind of shit. I tried to act surprised when I saw him even though he winds up on register every Sunday morning because he bakes their pies back of house and even though he’s supposed to only bake pies, the weekend staff is made of members of Mickey Mouse’s Clubhouse who are always cajoling him to work counter when it gets busy because they’re “prone to overwhelm.”

I tried to look sort of effortlessly sophisticated—sort of grown up. But I think I wound up looking too much like Lorraine Kelly.

When I got to the front of the cue I didn’t even know what to say. Said I was sorry. That I’ve been thinking a lot about how I couldn’t have always been easy to be with sometimes. I told him I’m thinking about quitting drinking. Don’t know why I keep telling people that.

January 30th, 1996

I’m actually feeling sort of nice? Watch out London! Went on a little walk even and bought a ticket for a cheeky show next Friday, I think it even might be a Shakespeare thing or something (properly intellectual!) I’m thinking about pitching a new column at the paper about reviews of local entertainment. Lorraine Kelly eat your heart out.

Addendum: Freddie came by very late. He almost had my pants off when I realized it was just a terrible fucking idea. Told him to go home to Marzia. Going to sleep wondering if we really ever loved each other.

January 31st, 1996

No calls from Freddie. Went to the Salon thankeffingod and think I’ll stick with this particular shade of pink for a while? It sort of suits me at the end of the day. Got the fringe straightened out which looks fab. Took the long way home by the water and it started to snow. Not bad that stuff.

I feel cold again, I used to think I ran warm. That feels untrue now which makes me feel sort of embarrassed. Especially when there’s something about Winter that reminds you you’re alive. Something about faces and fingers cooling and reheating and noses going pink. Maybe I quite like New Years—like I might not make a mess of things this time. Like it’s not my nature at all. Just timing.

At some point on the walk home I heard a group of people singing loudly at a local pub and it sort of broke my heart to not be a part of it. But the noise floated off the Thames and it made me feel less alone all the same.

Terrible singers. Not a Celine Dion among them.