My secret singleton behaviour. It’s very odd, and shaming.

I don’t mean the fact I only open my fridge with a corner of my T-shirt to avoid a smudge. Or that I check for whiskers each morning in a magnifying glass. Or that I only have one pair of socks. Outwardly, it all looks immaculate. I make my bed every morning, karate-chopping square pillows.

I get up at about 6am, mainly because a pointy collie nose (belonging to Missy) will find any spare inch of exposed flesh and poke it, wetly. I’m in bed by 10pm with my laptop and a film (last night, Annie Hall followed by Play It Again, Sam; dear, darling, quirky Diane Keaton: ‘Oh, Allan, I’ll pay for the lamp!’). I use a Waterpik on my teeth twice a day. I’ve conquered my fear of walking Teddy and now walk him twice a day in his halter; he’s like a little horse.

Trouble is, I drink a bottle of crémant each evening. I don’t think this is normal. In fact, I know it’s not. So much so, last week I took the bottles to the dump rather than have my recycling box sat by the church gates for all to see and tut over. I started drinking as I was being bullied in my own home (this was in Somerset, and the offender was a sibling); I would hide a bottle in my wardrobe, so it was never chilled. She was the sanctimonious sort who only ever drank tea; doubtless she would rather all my money was spent on her and her ungrateful son.

When I was subsequently losing my house in the Dales, the only plastic that worked was my Marks & Spencer charge card, with its 20 per cent press discount (I doubt that still exists). Back then, they didn’t deliver food, but they did deliver wine. Boxes of it. But even at that time of crisis I would only drink half a bottle. I didn’t own a fridge, so I would put the bottle in a bucket of water outside overnight.

Sometimes, after a particularly stressful day (being trolled, the horses getting to a pile of acorns, Mini Puppy unable to stand, a complaint about something I’ve written; the younger man I’d met once for lunch WhatsApping me to say there is nothing wrong with his gazebo that I’d trashed in this column), I might day-drink like Meghan, open a second bottle. Doubtless the reason I wake at 3am, trying not to breathe loudly or move, in case I activate Missy.

I had two sisters die from alcohol-related disease, so perhaps it’s genetic. We all have our reasons.

I think mine is wanting to feel more confident, to blot out the constant worry, to have something to hold of an evening. I eat very little but still need something to do once I sit down. I don’t think it’s boredom.

It’s an escape. A reward. I’ve tried non-alcoholic wine, but it’s ghastly. Someone explained the reason why. Brands that make beer rarely grow the hops, therefore have no emotional attachment, so they have developed great alcohol-free alternatives. But wine producers grow the grapes, nurture them like babies, take great pride in what they produce – therefore don’t feel what they make is in any way bad.

And isn’t it boring, to be unable to celebrate a wedding, a christening, a life, Christmas, the end of a hard week, the full-stop to a tedious day, Tuesdays. Everything without alcohol feels flat, like a long-opened bottle of fizz.

So, all in all, in the hope of normalising myself, when David 1.0 comes for the weekend, should I ask him to stay? Despite being a former drug addict and chain-smoker, he’d be the first to raise a straggly brow if I popped a second cork. Also, my bedroom floorboards need sanding. It could be a win win…

I texted him to say, ‘What do you eat these days?’ I’d already placed a Tesco delivery. I know.

It’s in my DNA. He has just replied: ‘Oh right, I should have said. Thinking about it, despite wanting to see Mini and recharging my car battery with a long trip, I’ll give it a miss. I’ll leave you to abuse yourself to (sic) the fading memory of a failed second-hand car salesman.’

JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK

• The Octopus saga continues. Only 11 months after fitting a new smart meter, they emailed, several times, to say they want to fit another one. We arranged a date. They confirmed a visit between noon and 5pm. I couldn’t leave the house. It was hard to concentrate. The time slot came and went. At 7pm, an email landed saying the engineer couldn’t make it, but I would receive £40 in compensation. I told them they owe me a day’s salary and that they shouldn’t employ someone who can’t use a phone. It’s fine to tell me I owe them money, but it never seems to work the other way round…

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LIZ JONES: I drink a bottle of crémant each evening. Do I have a problem?