CLARE FOGES: I know why childless women in their thirties drank like me
There was no denying it, it was literally a new low. As I lay on the floor of my apartment, where I had suddenly fallen face-first after a night on vodka and espresso martinis, the small part of my brain that was still sober sighed deeply at this latest low.
Was this during the teenage tear years? Or was I a college student who overdid it during freshman week?
No, I was a 34-year-old Chief Speechwriter for the Prime Minister, a responsible career woman – and absolutely soaked, hammered or tanked, however you want to say it, every other night.
Childless women aged 35 are more likely to binge drink than any other female group, according to a new study. This didn’t come as news to me; I’ve lived it.
While I enjoyed drinking throughout my late teens and 20s, it wasn’t until my 30s and 35s that my internal Oliver Reed kicked in.
Clare Foges shared that she binge-drinked in her 30s in part to drown out the panicky feeling that she would never settle down or have children
Not only was I not alone in this, but it seems to be a growing problem. Women who turned 35 in 2018 and 2019 (I turned 35 in 2016) were found to be 60 percent more at risk for alcohol problems than women the same age in the mid-1990s.
Something that was attributed to the fact that women were increasingly postponing motherhood. Study leader Dr. Rachel Sayko Adams, of the Boston University School of Public Health, said:
‘Because more and more women are postponing having children, an increasing number fall into the risk group.’
I can see why childless women this age drink hard and fast. Looking back on my drinking days, I realize that much of it was to drown out the slightly panicked feeling that I would never settle down and have children.
A bottle of wine rejected the annoying ‘tick-tick’ of the biological clock.
That’s the real reason why I wrote speeches on economic policy during the day and advised then Prime Minister David Cameron, but spent a week’s worth of units at night before bed.
Departing from Downing Street around 7pm, London’s pubs and bars would beckon.
Maybe I’d start with a pencil sharpener at a political drink, followed by after-work pints at a pub in Whitehall, followed by cocktails with friends in Shoreditch, followed by a nightcap at the Italian restaurant below my flat.
When the hangovers began to herald the black dog of depression and lingering anxiety, Clare sought the help of a psychiatrist who said the alcohol, along with chocolate and caffeine, should go away.
The wait staff were usually enjoying their after-hours drinks as I staggered home, and with a gray cheer they invited me in for a Chianti or two before home time. How could I refuse?
I was never short of stories. At a Downing Street Christmas party, we went to a West End bar where I was so drunk I lost one of my shoes and picked up my boss on the dance floor before promptly dropping her.
On another shot, I crashed into a celebrity golfer who asked security to have me removed.
One night I was so drunk I fell asleep on the last train out of Waterloo, only to be awakened by the guard in Portsmouth (about 50 miles past my stop).
I don’t want to highlight those years too tragically; had fun. But increasingly, hangovers heralded not only the black dog of depression, but also the black wolf of worry.
It all came to a head one summer when the mother of all morning afters sparked a severe fear that wouldn’t change.
After a few weeks I wanted my mood to stabilize. Quite a few people I knew used happiness pills, maybe I should?
I went to Harley Street to see an expensive psychiatrist. After a chat I explained the law: “Pills please, doctor.”
Clare has not drunk for seven years and now, with three young children, opportunities to drink are few and far between
He bowed his head slightly and described what he could prescribe and the side effects.
“If you take medication A, chances are you will become obese.”
Oh.
“If you take medication B, you’ll probably grow a beard.”
Eek.
“If you take Medication C, chances are you’ll become obese and grow a beard.”
What are you doing now. What could I do?
“The answer,” he said, “is to give up alcohol completely.”
What? Impossible!
The doctor explained how the alcohol affected my brain. In addition, he told me to completely cut out caffeine and chocolate.
‘Real? No dairy milk?’ I wailed. The doctor shook his head and said it was a neurotoxin to be avoided at all costs.
I haven’t touched chocolate or caffeine in eight years. The alcohol took longer to taper off, but the last time I drank was seven years ago.
And with three consecutive pregnancies at ages 36, 37, and 39 — resulting in three young children — there are few opportunities to drink.
Now immersed in the CBeebies and diaper years, I wish I had felt less pressure in my thirties and enjoyed the freedom without worrying so much about the ticking biological clock, and without chasing the worry away with pints of Pinot Grigio .
A penny for your thoughts, Meghan
Have Meghan and Harry felt a pang of jealousy – or even regret?
William and Kate can’t go wrong these days. They do a good job, they are adored by the public, she looks more radiant by the day (what the hell is her secret?)
Meanwhile, Harry and Meghan have been dropped by Spotify and are facing criticism from Hollywood heavyweights.
I wonder if watching the Walesen has given the Duke and Duchess of California a pang of jealousy – or even regret?
My flat rate is up – and my nerves are shredded
The Prime Minister tells us to keep interest rates under control. Alas, I am one of those whose nerves have been shot.
We didn’t buy our house until 2021. Now that our two-year fixed rate is up, the monthly payment is approaching the debt of a small Polynesian country.
With high interest rates, real estate prices have become unaffordable for many
We’ve stopped splurging on luxury, we’re now cutting back on essentials: who needs shoes?
The icing on the cake of this catastrophe is that older generations hear us told to pull ourselves together because they also suffered high rates.
This misses the point that loans were relatively small in the 1980s and 1990s.
The last time real estate prices were this prohibitive was in 1876. So please spare us the lectures.
Bread ice cream? Trust me, it works
Clare fell in love with the brown bread ice cream at a Soho venue, though she didn’t have much success trying to recreate it at home
The highlight of my taste buds life was when I tried brown bread ice cream in a small Soho restaurant.
Sounds off-putting, but it was delicious: malty, moreish, studded with soft little crumbs that melted on the tongue.
I’ve tried to recreate this at home, but always end up with something that tastes like a BLT with condensed milk.
So I’m thrilled that Marshfield Farm’s ice cream makers have created a brown bread flavor served at English Heritage venues. Mine is five scoops in a container. With a shovel, please.
When I read about the cleaner who destroyed 25 years of lab research by turning off a fridge, I remembered my first day working as a pot washer in a pub when I was 13.
I accidentally poured a vat of the chef’s best sauce down the sink. Fortunately, unlike the cleaner, I was never discovered!