The Unbearable Shortness of Pudding
I haven’t eaten a Yorkshire pudding in more than a year. They’re in short supply where I live now, and that’s a shame because, for me, that little pudding was the crisp full stop to a weekend of drinking.
When I lived in the UK I thought of myself as a renegade, a world citizen who’d never be like everyone else, but it turns out my weekends were in fact very traditional. I never thought of myself as British until I left the country and looked back with longing at the most British of things – a weekend on the piss. On Fridays I drank beer after work, on Saturdays it was shots at a club and Sundays were reserved for the holy hair of the dog.
Sitting in a big group of hungover people with a Bloody Mary and a Sunday roast is the thing I miss most about England. I know the rest of Europe thinks we binge drink, and perhaps that’s true. But whilst drinking a lot at the weekend is fun when you’re young, a Sunday in the pub traverses age, income and marital status. You can look Monday straight in the face with the warm glow of vodka in your belly. And most of us remember the joy of doing a crossword by the fire with a pint while Sunday Grandstand was on in the background.
Drinking is for more than just getting drunk, sometimes it gives us the memories that will see us through cold winters in foreign countries. The last time I was in England I spent a happy Sunday filling up with cider before my flight home, surrounded by the people I love, telling jokes and eating Yorkshire pudding. My liver might not thank me for it when I’m old, but my soul most certainly will.
Sarah, 29, Copywriter
Living in Sweden
Drinking habits: refined but not renounced.