No Big Drinker

I come from a big family. I have two older siblings, plus a younger brother. Growing up my maternal grandmother also shared our home. Mealtimes were big gatherings where we sat round the table. It was sometimes too rowdy for my granny, everyone talking and teasing each other. She often took meals on a tray in her own room. We always sat in the same seats, our glasses filled with water or squash. We passed the vegetables to each other, after my father carved the meat, some for each plate. My mother dished out the potatoes, rice or pasta and then we would all eat. 

Sunday lunch was a more formal affair. We would say grace, my granny joined us and the grown ups drank wine. From fairly young, my parents allowed us to have a small glass of cider – I can visualise the 1970s Woodpecker logo. I loved the meals when we had cider, but I wasn’t good at drinking it slowly. As soon as that golden, fizzy liquid was in my glass, I started sipping.

My granny was served the meat first, then my father worked his way round the family by age. If only I was big I’d have a plateful by now, I thought as I gulped my drink. Instead, as the second youngest, I had to wait almost ‘til the end. 

When my older brother asked me to pass the gravy, his voice came from far away. I lifted the warmed gravy boat unsteadily, bumping it against other dishes clumsily before handing it to him. My hands weren’t very obedient, didn’t feel like my own. Looking round the table I was viewing my family through a filter, like swimming underwater with my eyes open.

“Are you alright Polly?” 

My mother’s voice broke into my thoughts. Holding a cool hand against my forehead, she exchanged concerned glances with my father. They noticed my glass was empty, yet we hadn’t begun to eat.

“Why don’t you go and lie on the sofa?” 

Getting unsteadily to my feet, I tottered through the kitchen. I lay down, on my back, amongst plump cushions. The room see-sawed around me, reminding me of when I spun around until I felt dizzy. This gave me a warm glow too, of course I was tipsy.

When the giddy sensation wore off, I went back to the table. My family had begun eating and I was hungry too. Once I had food inside me, the last vestiges of that blurry feeling wore off.

My parents did not stop serving a glass of cider with Sunday lunch, but perhaps were more vigilant that it wasn’t consumed before the meal began. They believed in learning one’s own limits; it’s not uncommon in France for children to have watered down wine with meals. 

Even now I am no big drinker, it doesn’t take much alcohol to make the edges of my world blur. However that’s usually the point at which I switch to a soft drink. I learned my lesson that day, I really don’t like that out-of-control feeling. I still enjoy cider; particularly brands infused with other fruit flavours.

This story is submitted and linked to a summer writing project hosted on Mrs Fever’s site, where reminiscences are encouraged in a memoir style – Prompt #5 Big. Visit to see what other’s have written.