As I sit down to write this article, I’m about to pour myself a drink. After all, it’s 7pm, I’ve had a long day and a chilled glass of white wine would perk me up. Had I not become suddenly and acutely aware of the irony of knocking back a unit or two while writing about middle-class alcoholism, I’d probably have opened the bottle. I resisted, but there is no doubt that I, a middle-class, middle-aged, professional, workin ... Jump to full article >>