Tim Dowling: summer's over? I'll raise a glass to that

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/sep/06/tim-dowling-end-of-summer-drinking

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It is late Sunday morning and I am wandering through the house in search of a room that suits my hangover. My wife has refused to speak to anyone until the Archers Omnibus is over. Eventually I end up in my office, squinting at the previous day's emails and allowing myself to feel affronted by Amazon's recommendations: clarinet reeds, pushchairs, Usain Bolt's autobiography. You don't know me, I think.

I stay there until I hear the Archers' theme float from the kitchen. I find my wife in the garden, sitting in the sun. It's a much nicer day than I feel.

"Starting tomorrow," she says, "there's no drinking."

"Yeah, fine," I say.

"I'm not saying we'll never drink again, but not for at least a week."

"Summer's over," I say. "Back to school."

"Exactly," my wife says, reaching for a glass.

"Is that beer?" I say. "Are you having beer?"

"It helps me," she says.

"Is there any left?"

My wife's phone rings. Listening to one end of the conversation, I gather that we have lunch plans, and that those plans are developing.

"What's happening?" I say.

"It's all changed," she says. "They're coming here." She stands up and pats herself for keys.

"Who?" I say. "When?"

"They're bringing two chickens," she says. "I'm going out to get wine."

I find the beer in the fridge and pour myself a glass. I'm still staring at it sceptically when the middle one comes into the kitchen, stretching and yawning.

"What's going on?" he says.

"They're coming here, apparently."

"Really?" he says. "Wait, who?"

"We'll find out soon enough," I say. "Put out plates."

"How many?" he says.

"These are all good questions."

Lunch starts late, goes long and leaves me in need of a nap. My wife is already in bed, snoring lightly, when I get there. The afternoon sun is streaming through the windows, but there is an autumnal fragility in its warmth. I fall asleep with the glare penetrating my eyelids.

I wake to the sound of the Archers' theme somewhere in the distance, my heart pounding. For a moment I think Sunday is starting all over again, but it's nearly dark outside: the sun is hanging low and red over the railway line. My wife enters the room, phone in hand, and sinks her fingernails gently into my forearm.

"We've been invited out to supper," she says.

"What?" I say. "Where?"

"Hurry up," she says. "You need to get dressed."

"I am dressed," I say.

I decide to put on a different shirt, in case some of the people at supper turn out to be people we've just had lunch with. I brush my teeth, splash a little water on my face and go in search of my shoes. I find my wife sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in front of her.

"Are you drinking that?" I say.

"It all ends tomorrow," she says.

"I strongly recommend that you don't drink that," I say. "You're going to be too much fun."

"I'm going to be the right amount fun," she says.

"For a Sunday?"

"OK," she says. "I won't drink it."

"You can drink it when we get back," I say. "Post-fun."

"Let's go," she says.

The radio clicks on just before 7am, mid-news. A light rain is falling outside and the breeze coming through the open window is decidedly chilly. My temples ache. My lips are stuck to my teeth. I have a vague memory of being slightly too much fun.

"And now here's Jay with the weather," the radio says.

"Well, summer is officially over," Jay says.

"Thank Christ," my wife says.