The Cup

I didn't drink any booze at all yesterday. I didn't set out to, it just sort of happened. I guess it goes to show what even a momentary lapse of concentration can do at this level.

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears:
To-morrow! Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

... as the great Khayyam (poet, imbiber, mathematician, and astonomer of Iran) observerved.

Maybe if and when I get down to my target weight, I should implement a regime of giving up drinking if and when I ever go above it until the objective is restored. That should concentrate my mind. For, in Keat's formulation:

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: