I honestly believe that alcohol-related memory problems are hugely under-reported and mistaken for Alzheimer's disease. Ten years ago I would have been treating no more than three people at any one time for alcohol-related brain damage. Now there are at least 10 patients with that in my clinical service.
According to a survey, 79% of people said they would welcome measures to curb alcohol intake on flights while 11% said they would be happy with a total ban. But banning alcohol on a flight isn't the solution because the problem is in fact much, much bigger than our inability to say no to free drinks on a plane.
I've always asserted that the best thing about food and drink is its ability to offer such an honest window into the many different cultures you experience on your travels. Whenever I visit somewhere new (or familiar!), I insist on trying the local foods, beers and spirits - sometimes you end up with something questionable, but it's always fascinating and inspiring.
I woke up this morning to the nice newsreader lad on the telly informing me that you'd decided we should all stop drinking for two days a week, due to new guidelines you'd had a go at making. I waited eagerly for the second part of your plan. I waited and waited. But that was it. That was your idea. Just don't drink.
Years ago we had a cocktail party which one friend still refers to as The Lost Weekend. Our errors were threefold. First, we had forgotten that in our parents' generation, such parties lasted only a couple of hours and then people would sensibly go out for dinner. We made our guests drink cocktails all night.
London has been a great place to drink for many a year. This year, for me, it seemed even better than before. My favourite watering holes continued to please while a handful of bars and pubs new or otherwise previously unknown to me caught my attention with great service, comfy digs and - most importantly - quality quaffs.
Let's be clear. The worst thing about this time of year isn't sh*t gifts, it's not the midnight-on-New-Years texting your ex from the disabled bog you used to shag in, sobbing as Auld Lang Syne roars through two inches of wooden door you've locked to hide behind... It's the insufferable Facebook statuses that follow in the days between.