"I have my tea," indeed, steaming from a large cup near his notes on the table, the astringent, foul smelling stuff that would smell suspiciously like the herbs he'd coughed into the other day. Week. Whatever.

That tea.

"I would imagine drunkenness is a lost foible, in your case." What with the regeneration always, always trucking. "As well as any other substance, helpful or not."