...What a demise being in a treatment centre for Christmas!

...What a demise being in a treatment centre for Christmas! Have to say it’s all come as a bit of a shock. One minute I was planning twelve days of festive piss-ups; the next I was discovered at work slumped over my computer, a champagne bottle and a cameraman. And it was only eight o’clock in the morning.

To be frank I knew things weren’t looking up a couple of weeks ago when I went for a smear test at the local gynae clinic. They told me it wasn’t my cervix I should be concerned about but my liver and pointed me to the drugs and alcohol dependency unit down the road. Cheek! I know alcoholism goes back generations in my family but how anybody has the temerity to suggest I could be the next soak in the genetic line is simply unbelievable. Wait until I tell you about some of the inmates in this place.  I’ve got a long way to fall yet, I can tell you.

Anyway to continue.  I got sent home from work by my news editor, who was furious to find me in such a state.  To be honest I couldn’t face my husband of nine months so I went round to my friend Ron (you know the Arthur Daley character who sells second-hand fireplaces?!) and got through a wine box or three whilst I mulled over my future.

Not that I needed to have bothered. The executives at work were sorting that out for me. I was told I had to go to treatment for my drink problem or I’d lose my job! Don’t worry, I’ve got the union onto it.