That alcohol-related death rates rose during the pandemic might be the least surprising announcement ever made by the Australian Bureau of Statistics. Lockdowns certainly gave people who already drank too much an excuse to up the ante, and those who live alone were especially vulnerable. When there is nobody in the room at 10pm to say, ‘Do you really need to open that second bottle, darling?’ moderation is a big enough ask. But it becomes mission fricking impossible when the need to be somewhere else at 9am the next morning, wearing trousers and not smelling like a sommelier, is suddenly removed. So earlier this year, concerned as much by the effect I could see my wine intake was having on my bank balance as by the effect I could only suppose it was having on my liver, I hopped on the wagon for a few days. And finding the ride surprisingly comfortable, remained there for a few weeks. And now, after four months of not imbibing so much as the froth off a middy – and wearing trousers I haven’t been able to wear for a decade – I’m considering making the arrangement permanent.

The biggest obstacle to abstinence in Australia is, of course, beer group pressure. None of your friends will be sufficiently déclassé to call you a party-pooper to your face. Indeed, the first time you sit down at their table and tell them you aren’t drinking they’ll probably say, ‘Good on you, mate,’ or even ‘I should probably give that a go myself’. But that solidarity won’t last longer than the bubbles in your Badoit. When you get up to leave, instead of trying to talk you out of it, as they usually do, they will concede that, yes, 9.15 might be pushing it for a school night – and hand you your coat. That’s when you’ll realise that far from being the life and soul of the party, for the last two hours you’ve been standing just outside it, in a huge black hood, holding a scythe. And the next time you see them, and they say, ‘Still off the grog?’ and you say, ‘Yes’ and they say, ‘How long now?’ and you say, ‘Five weeks,’ and they say, ‘Well done!’ you’ll know that the accompanying clap on your shoulder is as sincere as the clap of the actress who didn’t win the Oscar. And that what they are really thinking is at best ‘Party pooper’ and at worst, ‘Are you saying I have a problem, you smug bastard?’

So my advice is, don’t tell them. Become a secret non-drinker. At restaurants, for example, always arrive five minutes early, order an alcohol-free beer (it’s everywhere now), ask for it to be poured before it’s brought to the table, and instruct the waiter to repeat this operation whenever he or she sees your glass is empty. The only time ‘I’m sticking to beer, tonight’ will arouse suspicion is if the meal is a major celebration and someone has ordered a fabulous wine. And if you arrive late, and the Petrus has already been decanted, don’t groan inwardly – groan outwardly. Then drop your car keys on the table and complain that having had a couple at the office you’re already borderline legal to drive home. Better to be the object of heartfelt sympathy than withering contempt.

Remember, too, that while giving up alcohol would have been social suicide in the old Australia, in the modern multicultural one it can open the door to a whole new lifestyle and community. But to be sure of a welcome at my local mosque I’d have to give up a few more things, and while I’m pretty sure I could live without pork and pokies – and have never had the least desire to get a tattoo – I’m not sure I’m ready to abandon my other post-lockdown resolution: getting a dog. Dog ownership is not technically haraam, but several hadiths make it clear that dogs should only be kept for hunting and never allowed in the home. So at the very least my putative mutt would have to sleep outside and chase the neighbour’s cat. But the real problem would be when I let it off its lead in the park and it gets amorous with the dog of an infidel. Without a few drinks inside me I’m not sure I could handle an honour killing.