More than a dozen years or so ago, Fran went into Montpon Menesterol hospital alcohol dependency unit and stayed for a month. While there she created quite a stir causing several people, one man in particular, to become very caring and protective of her. She would get up late and be in trouble for missing breakfast and then her ‘admirer’ decided to complain about her treatment and got himself into bad books as a result. But she came out ‘dry’ at the end of it and back at home I declared it an alcohol free zone and we had water with all our meals. She protested at this, there was no reason why I should deny myself, she was cured and would not need to drink with me. I firmly resisted but eventually came to believe what she assured me of and took one glass of red with each meal. Before long she said ‘I suppose I could just have one glass, surely that wouldn’t do any harm’. It is difficult to explain why, but I began to believe her, such is the persuasive power of the true addict. But one glass turned into two and we were on the slippery slope again.
So I put a complete stop to it and for many years now that is the way it has been, at meals with friends I would stick to water with her while they would drink wine. (Although the occasional T&T was slipped to me with a drop of G in it).
And then I started travelling with the dogs, all over France and the furthest corners of the Union and of course shared a glass of red with my companions at mealtimes in the routiers. Sometimes though I did choose water, I wasn’t always alone, you might be surprised at the number of French lorry drivers who don’t drink alcohol, even in the evening when driving on isn’t to follow.
But at home it was always TTotal, a lesson learned, but I had a problem. Delivering dogs to British and other adopters I was gratefully received but, as they had already paid whatever organisation for it, they didn’t, quite rightly, think that they should give more to me. Many of the French were different. The gifts were numerous and varied, cakes, biscuits, chocolates and, of course, wine. And not just the house red I was used to in the restos, well thought of specialities of whatever region I found myself in. So the bottles started to pile up, in the little room we call the bookroom, a 2x2 metre space lined with bookshelves and draped with cobwebs. No-one goes in there and the floor space became more and more restricted. Not only the gifts but boxes of goodies given by the Commune over the years. Champagne, reds, whites, cider, Belgian beer. They are all there.
For the last few years Fran has become completely immobile, she long ago stopped eating ‘real’ food with me in the dining room, and retreated to the kitchen with her special foods, high protein no doubt to sustain life and even pureed baby foods which she loves but to me (who has to test them for temperature) totally tasteless and/or horrible (no sugar or salt you see 
). She never ever enters the salle, except on very rare, twice yearly, passages through one corner to be wheeled outside to the car for a medical appointment. Even the doctor comes here now, to the kitchen of course.
So last week I thought, what am I do with the bookroom, get rid of books, never, give wine away as gifts, not really, I have always thought it rather sneaky to give gifts as gifts. So perhaps I should drink them 
. No need for secrecy, but it didn’t feel right, so I sneaked a corkscew from the kitchen to reside on ‘my’ table and last week opened my first bottle. A 2016 Bergerac red, and very nice it was too though it took me 4 days to finish it. 2 days ago I saw a lovely tall slim bottle, very aristocratic. It was only as I was pulling the cork that the light shined through, it was a white. I read the label, Alsace Grand Cru, Brand, 2015. Sweeter than the red but very acceptable and suitably cool, the bookroom is isolated from the heated rooms. I have even had a small glass with my lunch today. 
The bottle will last for this evening and tomorrow.
So I have become a secret drinker, I make sure that the sound on the tv or radio isn’t muted when removing a cork, I never touch the bottle to the glass, there is no clink, Fran’s sense of smell was destroyed years ago, possibly by smoking so no need for breath freshener. But is this subterfuge really necessary, and why is it so? Guilt? Maybe, but I don’t really think so, it is something else. Cheating? Hmm. I just don’t know, but I do know that I will not come out, as some say in other circumstances.
Except here of course where no-one is reading. Now, I wonder how long it will take me to get to the end of the bookroom. 
