Goodbye, My Lover

Roriwrangling – by comedian, mum and radio announcer Kat Davidson


Goodbye, My Lover


I have had a long term relationship. Passionate and volatile, it hasn’t always treated me well. We’ve certainly had our ups and downs, but it appears that the birth of Rori has damaged it irrevocably. Oh, don’t panic. I’m not referring to my husband. He’s lovely and I’m sure I’ll keep him. Its alcohol. And I’m not the one doing the breaking up – it no longer loves me.


I wasn’t the kind of drinker who would end up dancing on the bar, but I might be found close to the bar dancer waiting for the bartender to get distracted to steal some vodka in the melee. I’ve ended up in tears from too many deep and meaningfuls or just the awful horror of a real hangover. You know the kind – begging your partner to kill you to make it stop. I used to be able to hold my own with the best of them and have made mistakes and had wonderful adventures with a drink in my hand. Sometimes at the same time.


With a long and distinguished family history of alcoholism behind me, I would say I was fairly high up on the functional scale. More Irish socialite than Betty Ford resident. But I have had my share of best on ground prizes for my efforts. And I’ve woken more than once with the creeping sensation that I have said or done something I’ll have to apologize for once I can use my words again. I’m not proud of those moments, and I won’t miss them.


I can’t even claim the high ground on this one. I didn’t get a sainthood with my C-section scar. I simply can’t handle it. Maybe it’s a survival mechanism. A switch gets tripped during pregnancy that makes your body constantly aware that it is in charge of a tiny human who needs you to have your shiz together. And it will stop you from doing anything that might make that difficult.


I recently went to an event with my handsome sir where we had access to free alcohol. I was wearing a lovely frock, he looked handsome and we had a babysitter to Roriwrangle. I had a license to let my hair down. Five drinks in five hours, copious amounts of water and I wake feeling seedy. I don’t know specifically what pregnancy does to a person’s ability to handle alcohol, but mine is broken. After two drinks, I’m even less capable of conversing with a stranger and not showing them photos of Rori than usual. Five and I was half asleep in frog pyjamas. Ah well, even cowgirls get the blues.



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