And so it went on from one drunken disaster to the next

And so it went on from one drunken disaster to the next. I’d always managed to be pretty conscientious at school but years of hard study were ruined in a weekend away on a geography field trip to Snowdonia. My friend Kat and I stocked up with gin and vodka, not to mention the 200 cigarettes, for the lengthy coach trip between Yorkshire and Wales.

You know how boring coach journeys can be? Well, to pass the time we swigged back the booze, passing the bottle around to our schoolmates and our newfound friends from two other schools who, like us, found themselves on a bus to nowhere all in the name of education. 

By the time we got to our grotty hostel we were plastered. Events deteriorated. By that night we had systematically destroyed our bedroom for fun, pulling apart towel rails, dismantling curtain poles and breaking bedside tables in half. We leant out of the window and jeered at the local yobs in our gingham nighties and persuaded them to go in and visit our geography teacher. Which they did  -and she called the police and they were taken away on assault charges.

The next day we were meant to stagger up Snowdonia as part of our geography ‘O’ level course. The only thing I succeeded in doing was getting hopelessly lost and the bus back to the grim hostel was held up while everyone waited for me. I’ve now ruled out orienteering as a possible hobby.

The last fifteen drink-induced years

Although the last fifteen drink-induced years have passed by in a bit of a blur I suppose some of you might be wondering how I got myself into this predicament! People often talk about their ‘first drink’. What I can tell you is, mine wasn’t in the singular. I think, if my alcohol-soaked memory serves me correctly, it was when my parents took me backstage after we had watched Swan Lake. I got hopelessly pissed on champagne and disgraced them and myself in front of Dame Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev.
And it was the proverbial slippery slope from there. 

By twelve I was smoking for Britain and drinking whenever I got the opportunity. By fifteen I was passing out on a regular basis. There was many an occasion when my tee-totalling father came to collect me from one of the North Yorkshire parties to find me on the floor – literally.

Well, things got from bad to worse.  Particularly when I was removed from the boarding school due to lack of funds and put into a private day school for young ladies.  According to my friends I frequently raided the Dubonnet cabinet before school.

I remember (surprisingly) one infamous occasion when I persuaded a friend of mine to leave the birthday party we were at to hitch a lift to the nearest town because I had fallen for a tattooed toothless chap that ran the flying saucer ride at the fairground.

Old enough to be a grandfather, I had fallen for his charms, such as they were, and we turned up in the pouring rain so I could have a quick snog, and then it was time to get ourselves back to the party. We had trouble getting a lift back and when a dodgy character in a carpet van eventually agreed to take us our absence had already warranted a search party.

...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.