This simple tweak to your drinking can transform your face and health in days. It made me look five years younger in a week – I was so delighted with the results I will do it again, writes SUSANNAH JOWITT

We’ve probably all given up alcohol at some point, eager to give our bodies some respite following a period of boozing. Dry January is the big one, squirrelling ourselves away during those long winter nights, swearing off all fun in the name of ‘New Year, New Me’.

In winter, the key to success is social isolation and a Faustian pact with the devil that if we cocoon ourselves away from all temptations and any need to look beautiful, enveloping ourselves in hoodies and sweatpants, we get to emerge from a hoolie-free hibernation like glossy butterflies, with not just a recovered liver but a sleek new look and transformed energy levels.

But imagine deciding, as I have, that what I need is to give my system a short, sharp shock, going teetotal for seven days to see if it makes me look better in advance of a big-number birthday party of a friend, and to do it at this busy time of the year, that post-summer, back-to-the-coalface season, when I am going out every night and still need to look good throughout. The twin-horned dilemma is how to not drink and still have fun, and what to drink instead?

My favoured tipple is rosé or prosecco, with champagne if offered. Throw in long, lazy lunches at weekends and I can easily tot up a weekly total of 56 units – four times the recommended intake for women.

In cutting down to none, a GP friend assures me that I will almost instantly see the results of abstinence – not just invisibly, in my liver, but for all to witness: in the reduction of puffiness in the bags above and below my eyes, in the smoothing out of my skin, the reduction of fine lines and redness and in the increasing brightness of my eyes.

Call me cynical, but I don’t believe that this is possible so, just to set the bar of the challenge even higher, I vow to take a selfie at 7am every day that week, make-up-free and in the full harshness of morning light, for a fierce and forensic comparison, day by day, of said skin and eyes.

Putting myself under the microscope of morning light like this is even braver for me than it would be for most others – because my 57-year-old face is quite the sight at 7am; still creased and puffy from sleep, eyes bloodshot from the carousing and lateness of the night before. So much so that it is a joke among my family and friends, that my smartphone’s Face ID doesn’t work for me until 8.30am at the earliest. I am so troll-like first thing that even my own phone doesn’t recognise me and let me in.

So how likely is it that stopping drinking could show on that face in such a short time?

Really quite likely, I am told by Dr David Neilson, the aforementioned GP friend. ‘Put simply, the face and eyes act like an early warning system for the body,’ he says. ‘A puffy face – facial oedema – and rheumy eyes are both immediate signs of excessive drinking.

‘It’s one of alcohol’s odd contradictions: while it dehydrates you overall, it has an inflammatory effect that can also make parts of your body retain fluid  and around the eyes, both in the bags underneath and in the eye socket above, that soft tissue is a swift indicator of how hydrated you are. At the same time, the vasodilatory effect of alcohol can be seen both in the bloodshot eyes – as the blood vessels on the surface of the eye expand visibly – and in the swelling of the mucosal lining of the nose, which is why drinkers snore.

‘The good news is that what goes quickly up, comes quickly down. Even a couple of days off the booze improves sleep and lowers the vasodilatory effects of alcohol: so, less swelling all round. Equally quick is the effect of decent hydration: drinking more water literally dilutes the effects of the alcohol it is replacing, leading to less inflammation and less disruption of the tear layers which keep your eye lubricated.

‘Which should translate, for you, into reduced eyelid swelling, less under-eye puffiness, diminished facial bloating and redness, even brighter, whiter eyes because you’ll be rubbing them less.

‘I never want to sound preachy but I think you’ll be impressed.’

Day One

I’m going to need every millimetre of the promised improvement because, on Day One, I nearly crack the camera lens on my phone. I went to bed late, from a friend’s all-day (and into the night) lunch party, and I look like I’ve done a few rounds with Tyson Fury, then been chased away from the boxing ring by a swarm of angry bees.

I am reddened of skin, bloated of face, and every one of the 12 glasses of champagne I had over the 12 hours of the party is tallied up in the lines on my face, like marks scored on the wall of a prison cell by a lifer. My eyes look like hard-boiled eggs wearing puffa jackets – and the bags underneath them could be the full set of luggage given away on the Generation Game.

‘Hmmm,’ says my husband tactfully. ‘It’s not great.’

By 6pm, mindful of those words, I’m wearing makeup and dressed to the nines for a party organised by my choir. To forestall any social anxiety, of being seen as the boring non-drinking one at an event that is famously well-oiled, I have brought my own bottle of Nozeco Rosé alcohol-free prosecco (£3.50, available in most supermarkets). It looks like the real deal and, while it doesn’t quite taste like prosecco, it’s less sweet than the soft canned drinks that I have always hated.

Day Two

I would gasp with horror at the sight of me on Day Two, but I’m too busy popping headache pills.

This seems unfair – it’s not as if I can be hungover but I know that this is the price of withdrawal: the blood vessels in my brain are hurtling back to their usual diameter and my circulation is readjusting, with a headache being the body’s way of helping me through.

Water is the best medicine so I glug away, feeling better by 10am, just in time to set off for a lunch party being thrown by a magazine I write for. Normally I’d keenly avail myself of the free booze but today I hear myself asking weakly what they have in the way of soft drinks. Diet Coke and elderflower soda is the response. After an hour or so, I’m holding back the burps and feeling both bored and bilious as, around me, my pals start ordering cocktails…

Giving up drinking always feels harder when you don’t like fizzy pop, get bored of the herby gaseousness of all the Botivo and Seedlip alternatives and can find nothing that tastes better than wine to have with food.

These days, luckily, it’s a more forgiving world than when I was having children and unable to drink during pregnancy. Now, you can find very tolerable alcohol-free wines: rosé or rosé prosecco (like the Noughty range online or at Majestic) often being the best, if you drink it a little colder than you do normal rosé.

Zero white wine is usually only drinkable if chilled to Antarctic temperatures and they’ve got a way to go with red wine, though the Torres Natureo Red is better than most. For beer drinkers, tasty Guinness Zero and the Brewdog range of Hazy AF, Punk AF and Wingman AF are all good alternatives.

Day Three

I’m no longer surprised by how bad I look in the 7am selfie. I’ve had a dreadful night. Maybe it’s the sugar in the Nozeco, but I wake at 2am and 4am with the racing heart, thudding head and dry mouth of a sugar come-down. The non-hangover only seems to be getting worse.

Taking these selfies means I can’t get away from The Face: remaining puffy, with bloodshot eyes, and, though I think the gin nose is less red, it’s still not an edifying spectacle.

As I sit in a hot Tube carriage that night, coming home from a sober trip to the theatre, I realise the unpalatable truth that, after a few, all zero-alcohol alternatives pall for me (in a way that wine just doesn’t), especially with food – and then I am stuck with water.

Day Four

Progress! Halfway through the week, my jawline already seems more defined, my eyelids less puffy, while my nose and cheeks are even less red.

Tonight is our Book Club and, while I’m touched by the support I get for my short sharp sobriety drive from my girlfriends, there’s nothing so dull as peri-, post- or just plain-in-it menopausal women comparing symptoms and convincing themselves that drinking wine is the root of all their evils. ‘Oh, red wine is the worst,’ they say, ‘it wakes me in the night, bed sweats, heart racing, acid reflux, the works but, really, I’ve just decided to give wine a miss altogether – my menopause specialist tells me that’s the sensible approach and I’m such a lightweight these days that I get a hangover after two glasses anyway.’

My innate stubbornness about not following the herd makes me want to point out that I’m a really good drinker, that I don’t get drunk, that I never had a hangover before this week, that I don’t have any more hot flushes when I drink so, since I don’t feel any ill-effects from drinking, why give up on it?

Except that wouldn’t be quite true. Even after just three days I have noticed that my sleep has improved in quality – I’m back to dreaming and there’s not so much floating in and out of awareness, or needing to slake a thirst in the night.

I have also noted that my consumption of Rennies – usually one a night at least – has simply stopped as that heartburn before I go to sleep has disappeared.

Day Five

Despite the end being nearly in sight, I am flagging.

I stare at myself ever more critically each morning and cannot deny that I look better. But the problem with pegging the effects of sobriety so completely to how I look, is that this then becomes another example of medicalising vanity: that what’s happening on the outside has become more important than on the inside.

To the selfie-examining eye, the outer signs are good; but inside, I’m bored.

And, yes, I do feel perkier in the morning but that could be because I’m getting to bed earlier than if I were drinking, despite being out every night. Each party starts well: banter bats back banter on an equal playing field but the drinkers are forging ahead on a different track, fuelled by alcohol, and I begin to lag behind.

Tonight, I’m at a party of friends from my CrossFit days; like many gym-going types, they tend to carouse infrequently, so when they do, they go for it. It would be reductive to say that drunk people are tedious – maybe I’m the dull one – but the difference soon becomes boring so I duck out early and head to bed.

Day Six

Today, I’ve flip-flopped back in favour of being booze-free. The evidence is right there in front of me: I’m even smiling in the selfie.

After one short week, my skin is smoother and softer, the blotches evened out, my eyes far less red-rimmed and hooded, undeniably clearer and whiter.

I’m moving more lightly too – the fluid that has left my face looking almost chiselled has also drained from my ankle and knee joints, which is, er, sobering. All told, I look at least five years younger.

It’s Saturday night and it’s the big one: we are celebrating my husband’s best friend’s 60th with a diverse range of friends.

Some drink, some don’t; for the first time, I can’t tell who is doing what. Everyone seems to be paying me compliments about how well I look, so I’m happy any which way. We swing onto the dance floor. I can’t quite believe I am dancing without the crutch of alcohol.

Day Seven

Mission complete. I couldn’t be happier, both with the success of the project – my clear-eyed smiling face beams back at me in the mirror – and with its conclusion: it’s over and tonight, I can have a glass of wine to celebrate.

I can see a sustainable way ahead: a quick reset ahead of a big event or holiday will make me both healthier and more beautiful. In between, I can either drink in the way I always have or do maintenance periods where I cut down, but for visible improvements, total sobriety, even for this short a period, is the answer.