Last week I was talking to David Sedaris about sobriety. I'd love to say it was over dinner and we'd just discussed world politics, the importance of travel and, if we had a choice, which animal we would like to be in our next lives. Instead I was watching him eat dinner at a book signing after his Brisbane show. He chatted to a friend and I for about 10 mins as he sketched a picture of my head on a cat's body. The whole time I pretended to be witty and intellegent, but in truth I was giggling and stuttering one word answers to all of his questions.

My friend, on the other hand,was fantastic. Her and David shared c-bomb jokesand talked about being childless adults in a child-driven society.... I was still caught up on David Sedaris telling me he dug my sailor dress. But then sobriety and my HSM stint came up in conversation. 

Sedaris has written, in length, about the vices he has given up in the last decade or so. Supposedly cigarettes were the hardest: "How long has it been since I had a drink?" he asked in his quiet, curious way. "I don't even really think about it anymore."

And that was the point that I smiled. I'm sure he didn't even notice that those seven little words held such weight. "I don't even really think about it anymore". Really? Because the whole time I've been standing here I've been thinking about how nice a smooth glass of red would be. I'm sure my ol' pal Merlot and I would have charmed him senseless. "I don't know you, but heck, why don't you come along to the states with me and I'll introduce you to my pal Ira Glass of This American Life Fame?" "Really?" I'd say. "I have so much on this week, but if you think it would be worth it..." "Of COURSE!" he'd shout "You were born for this!" And then we'd walk out, arm and arm and he'd introduce me to his boyfriend Hugh.

But Merlot wasn't in company. And that's probably a good thing. Because the me + booze + someone I admire equation is never a good one. Never has that person foreseen something amazing in my future, except, for maybe a killer hangover and the overwhelming possibility that I'll vom in a gutter and fall asleep under a palm tree in my neighbour's yard.

There was the time I spilled beer on one of my favourite up-and-coming artists, Mike Rosenberg, whose solo gig - Passenger - did splendid things to my ears. I told him it was my last night in Port Douglas before packing up and heading overseas for a fair portion of the next year. Then I tripped a little, covered him in half a schooner of Tooheys Extra Dry and invited him to a party in our apartment block's pool area. He signed a CD "Have loads of fun", politely declined and walked back to the stage, to hide from me no doubt.

So, thank you David! I'm glad you don't think about it anymore. And while I'm not doing HSM with the view of never touching alcohol again, I do hope that the lesson of having a civil conversation with someone that you admire is much better than covering them in beer and hoping for the best.