Drink Up

I really have to drink more. And I don’t mean because the writer pal I bumped into last week later admonished me for only necking down a rather pathetic two half-pints during the time we spent in a rather amiable Soho pub.

Having seriously cut back on coffee to the extent that I rarely drink it here in the flat, there are days when I simply forget to drink anything. Obviously this isn’t good, especially since guidelines from the British Dietetic Association state that an adult should pour 2.5 litres of water down their throat every day.

Health issues aside, it does lead to more immediate problems. It wasn’t until I was on the way into Central London that I realised I hadn’t had anything to drink this morning. Sure I’d rinsed my mouth during my morning ablutions, but that was it. By the time I was spat out onto Oxford Street my throat was parched and my lips felt dried out.

Which meant that on a blistering hot day I walked partway down Oxford Street, with all the girls in their summer clothes passing by, continually licking my lips before I could buy myself a bottle of water. Realizing this wasn’t perhaps the best thing to be doing, I dropped my gaze so as to avoid eye contact.

As it turned out, that was the worst thing I could do. Because when I had to stop for the lights I’d glance up and invariably there would be some young filly with the swell of her breasts straining against the flimsy cotton of a low cut top really giving me the stink eye. The bottle of Evian I eventually got my sweaty paws on probably cost more than the equivalent weight of shuttle fuel but it proved necessary.

So sorry to any of the young missies who thought I was purposefully staring at their spectacular rack. On the way back I stopped off and bought this:


I know. But it’s brilliant.