We watched as mum slowly killed herself with drink

"Please give me a glass of wine" she’d beg my father staring at the flagon between them on the table ‘‘you’ve had enough. He’d reply, in a tired voice. ‘‘Oh, l’m not allowed a glass of wine, am l?’’  she’d jump up and storm out of the room, only to return minutes later and start again  ‘‘can I have a glass of wine?’’ she’d say, already pissed from her own supply  ‘‘Nic, ask your father if l’m allowed a glass of wine’’ I would look at her, then at him then back at her.

‘‘you look as if you’ve had enough already’’ my father replied.

‘‘For God’s sake I haven’t touched the wine. Nic have I had any wine this evening? Anyway l don’t need your permission’’ she’d snarl!. ‘‘I’II just help myself’’ she’d stand up, stalk round the table, reach for the flagon, pour herself a glass, then wait for him to start shouting.

If she did sit quietly at the table she’d be so drunk that she could barely lift a fork to her mouth. It seemed to hover there for an age, finally clattering to rest

 Miserable as it was I hated it when our desperate edifice fell apart. We all did. However it was only when we ventured out into the world that we raised how mad we really were. For most children, it is strangers in the world outside who can repent danger. For us the danger was right there in the house under our feet, waiting to trip us up.

 I started drinking young, heading the same way as my mother; drinking simply because there were so many things I couldn’t face. By 17 I couldn’t dry my hair without a glass of something in my hand yet in a sense, I was privileged. For years I’d had the opportunity to watch as alcohol stripped my mother of everything- her looks, friends, her self-respect, so I know that drink was a horrible way to live and an even more miserable way to die. Nevertheless, I let it set about destroying me and ended up in a coma with acutepancretitis at 26. I was lucky, though I stopped drinking my mother didn’t, she choked to death on her own vomit hopeless and helpless. She was 63.

As a family, believed the reason we didn’t get help was shame. Our relatives were ashamed of us, of her drinkingwe were buried, kept out of the way like lepers. Shame, I believe, is a far bigger disease in today world than alcoholism.