Happy, richer, sober and not a little smug - the rewards of a month on the wagon In the first week, I found myself looking longingly at a newspaper picture of fat, drunken girls sprawled on some city-centre floor in their own vomit. It was accompanying a piece on binge-drinking. I went to the cinema one night, and bumped into friends making their way to the pub. They later told me that I winced visibly when they mentioned where they were going. My colleagues, used to a girl who had not gone more than four days without a drink since she was 18, started to call me "Boring Bryony"," and point out that the British Liver Trust had declared the January detox "medically futile." But I was sticking to it anyway. Besides, this was as much a psychological experiment as a physical cleanse - which is just as well because standing on the scales, I discover that since quitting booze I've actually put on weight. I think this is because gyms in January are as unpleasant as pubs in December - crammed with fair-weather drinkers turned fair-weather exercisers. I wanted to see how much better, mentally, I felt without booze. The answer to that is: at first, not much. I couldn't get off to sleep until 4am, and when I did it was incredibly deep and far more difficult to rouse myself from than the hungover comas I was used to. My evenings had usually been spent in the pub, but now they stretched out in front of me. I watched The Killing, The Killing II, and discovered Borgen. When I was done with those I moved on to Boardwalk Empire and then - and this is the truly tragic part - Battlestar Galactica, in which robots known as cylons wage war on humans. On Sunday night, as I ironed shirts and bed linen while watching the end of season one, I wondered if I hadn't turned into a cylon myself. So, given the tedium of my January, I should probably be more welcoming towards February. But I don't seem able to be. The truth is, I have quite enjoyed not drinking. Once past the two-week mark, all the energy that had been dulled by constant boozing returned, triumphant. I feel happy, richer and a tiny bit smug - and given that I've never had cause to feel smug before, I am quite enjoying it. More crucially, I have realised I much prefer staying in than going out. But now - now there is no excuse. You can turn down all the invites you like in January without fear of offending, but in February? No, you can't hide behind February. February is not your friend. Unless, of course, you go teetotal. In which case...