Misnomer

Wisdom teeth, it turns out, are thick as pigshit. If they're so intelligent, why do they half emerge and then get bored and stop, leaving me open to external forces of evil? Where is the Einstein IQ that causes a TOOTH to create a situation whereby I have to take antibiotics that make me spaced out and unable to cope with the most basic of tasks and, more extraordinarily, unable to consume alcohol?

For I, ladies and gentlemen of The Faithful, have just gone An Entire Weekend Without Wine. And my god, if it wasn't one of the most challenging experiences of my entire middle-class existence, up there with boycotting Primark on moral grounds (resounding fail) and tearing myself away from West London (belated success). First up was Friday night, when I had to learn and sing some tango music to accompany a bizarre version of a Midsummer Night's Dream in front of a room full of strangers, and a glass of white would have gone down extremely well. And then on Saturday, having been to an a capella singing workshop at the gorgeous King's Place, I rushed home to receive my parents and my aunt and uncle, who had brought three bottles of wine between them, and as I sipped my Britta-filtered Chateau Neuf du Tap (appalling, sorry), my four wonderful relatives enjoyed several glasses of Rioja and others. They were, as always, superlative company but it was odd being the sensible one. I'll tell you one thing for nothing - my dad is freaking hilarious. Literally very funny. Unrepeatable, so you'll have to take my word for it, but even sober, he had me in stitches.

Then it was Sunday, and I went up to Hoxton to meet Em, and we tried very hard to find a hipster venue for lunch, but there were hipsters lining up outside all the trendy places so we ended up walking down to Spitalfields and going to... wait for it... wait for it... so cutting edge I can hardly bear to tell you.... Strada. I had a Fiorentina. I know. Aren't you impressed by my risky culinary choice? It was delicious. But knock me over with a biro if it wouldn't have been massively improved by a fat glass of unoaked Chardonnay or similar.

And from Shoreditch to Waterloo, and a lovely meeting with an old friend, and a seat on a sofa opposite him in an armchair, as he drank a glass of white, and then another and another and another, while I had four or possibly five small bottles of sparkling Hildon and I was almost weak with desire for alcohol, while simultaneously proud of myself that I was able to endure the H20 experience without seeming too uptight. I just kept thinking of how grateful my skin would be for the detox, and how many calories I was sparing my thighs, but frankly, I'd rather be curvy and have booze than thin and perennially sober. This whole toothache thing is certainly not an experience I'm in any hurry to repeat. The drugs finish in two days and the celebration will be emotional.

My name is Jane and I am not an alcoholic, honestly. I just love wine and I love getting a bit tipsy. Judge me all you like, I am unrepentant.