Setting sail with a change of underwear and a heap of advice
EVER drink spirits.’ ‘Never play drinking games.’ ‘Never swim after drinking.’
Our Eldrick looked less than thrilled with all the good counsel being offered. A one-man captive audience, he sat squirming and rolling his eyes as I passed on the advice I felt he needed to hear. He clearly did not share the belief that this was necessary wisdom.
‘Don’t mix grape and grain when drinking.’
‘Don’t imagine that drinking is needed to have fun.’ ‘Don’t ring home when you’ve been drinking. Your mother is worried enough as it is.’
He had been called into the kitchen for a heart-to-heart as he prepared to leave on his first major Continental holiday without family. In fairness to Eldrick, he is now an adult, so going heading off with a few good mates is perfectly normal and understandable behaviour. He is old enough to vote, old enough to enrol for college, old enough to get married and certainly old enough to spend a week unchaperoned by some sunny beach.
His parents have of course no reason to be worried at all. He has all the hallmarks of a solid citizen with a responsible head on his shoulders. In our more logical moments, we know that he is to be trusted when out of our sight. But with the newspapers full of Irish teenager tragedies in foreign parts, he was prevailed upon to come into the kitchen for this fatherly chat. ‘Don’t go near drink that you can’t….’
At this point Eldrick interrupted: ‘I thought you wanted to talk about international travel. So before you ask, I have my passport, my health card, my debit card and a change of underpants all ready to go. I have already checked in on-line for the flight and I have topped up my phone. Mother has packed me a bucket of sunscreen and she has baked me one of her almond-with-apricot cakes.
‘I realise that you may miss me when you notice that I am not hogging the good television set to play computer games. So, I hereby undertake to send home a text every second day to confirm that I am still in the land of the living and not under arrest. If that text is not received then you are free to feel convinced that I am either in jail or in intensive care. In fact, if I fail to keep in contact, the chances are that I have been distracted by one of the many nymphomaniacs who are standing eagerly by for my arrival at Playas das Lupos.
‘When you called me in, I was hoping for some pearls of globe-trotting wisdom, along with confirmation that you will run me and the lads to the airport. Instead, all you want to talk about is drink. Da, do you have an issue with alcohol?’
Me, an issue with alcohol, what a monstrous suggestion. How could I have an issue with alcohol when I never take a beverage before six, no make that five, o’clock in the evening? Except funerals, of course, and weddings and the occasional birthday party. It is fair to say that I almost never drink before four o’clock most afternoons.
How could I have an issue with alcohol when I do not drink every day? I can’t drink for two days each week when taking my tablets. Which reminds me, the prescription ran out a month ago. So perhaps there has been some extra self-medication with alcohol. But only a little. Honestly.
How could I have an issue with alcohol when I do not drink spirits? Apart from Cointreau, naturally, but Cointreau is a liqueur and does not count.
Mark me down as a social drinker, a drinker who likes a glass or two of wine with a meal, a drinker who picks up a brown ale to mark the end of the working day. The only ‘issue’ I have with alcohol is whether to serve Cote de Rhone with chicken casserole or break out the Rioja. It really is not a problem, or an obsession. No issue at all really.
After making his commitment to text home and change his underpants, Eldrick waited respectfully for me to speak. I rummaged in my wallet and passed a bank note across the table.
‘There you are, son. Enjoy the holiday. And if you get the chance be sure to pick us up something nice in duty free.’