Chitra Ramaswamy: Fancy a drink? Me too

IT ALL starts with an innocent conversation with an old friend. It's a wet Wednesday night in Edinburgh and I'm meeting P at a gig. Inside, it smells like all gigs – a Proustian whiff of stained carpets, stale beer and teenage kicks. “Mmmmm,” I sigh, sucking up memories through my nostrils. “Beer?”

“Actually, I'm on a week's alcohol detox,” says P, who for 15 years has been my drinking partner in crime. We were basically the Bonnie and Clyde of, erm, the Clyde, minus the sex appeal and phallic references. I make ‘good for you' noises, but inside something has shifted profoundly. We appear to have grown up, but I'm not ready. We glumly order Cokes and look for a seat.

The next day, without even a tiny hammering of a hangover, I mention the notion of a week's detox to C. Horrifying, no? “Actually,” says C (I'm learning to hate the word ‘actually') “I've been thinking of doing one too. Let's start on Sunday.” My life has been hijacked by healthy, sensible people, the kind who think bad behaviour is forgetting to measure out their goji berries.

Still, as Darwin understood, humans are an adaptable species. I decide to join C and quit the devil's sauce for seven days. I'll do yoga, read Treasure Island and get early nights. How tough can it be?

A small disclaimer. I am not a big drinker. I am of the French school of life – a glass of wine (OK, two) with dinner most nights, but no binge drinking (unless it's a wedding/Christmas/birthday/anniversary/reallybadday/reallygreatday) and, while we're at it, children should never throw food and a silk scarf will go a long way.

So, I’m one of those people – like almost everyone I know – who doesn't really know how much they drink. No matter how many times I read the number of units a woman is supposed to drink per week, I forget it instantly. It evaporates from my mind like red wine from a beef bourguignon. (It's two to three units a day, basically a small glass of wine. But what's this? Poof! It's gone again ...)

Day one is a doddle. It's Sunday, and I have a hangover from the night before. Camomile tea and Call the Midwife – heaven. I read the news stories about the Scottish government's minimum alcohol pricing plans and feel – how would a teetotaller put it? – smug. Day two is tough. It's Monday, a day for walking home alone in the dark after work, the bottle of ale in the fridge cheering you on like a supporter at the end of a race. I get home, ignore the ale and do an hour of yoga instead. Again, the icky feeling of smugness, which I'm starting to realise is the abstainer's equivalent of a hangover.

On Wednesday, the cinema: a natural haven for the hapless detoxer. On Thursday, a hot-air balloon ride over the Cairngorms. OK, that's a lie. I meet a friend after work and have a drink. Oh dear. But then for the next two nights, I stay free of grain and grape.

“So that's one drink in a week,” says C as we pour large glasses of red to celebrate on Sunday night. “How many units is that?” I have no idea.