I would say that I have spent the last decade depending upon drink to calm my nerves. From soothing my 25 year self from mania and misery thus uncorking a bottle of red at 11 am and drinking myself into oblivion, to the later more disguised and manageable bottle of wine an evening, melting the seeming hardships of psychological, personal dislike of life.

It's only been seven days since my last recoil into drowning my sorrows: three pints of beer and two half pints of wine in quick succession last Monday night, and since then I've had a social 'small' glass of wine and otherwise sustained myself in the evenings with chamomile or Valerian tea and bountiful reading.

My sister died two years ago this February and I find myself thinking of her in my sober moments for example when I open a cupboard to get a packet of food out, I think of her busying about her kitchen or gratefully thanking me for a vinegar cleaning spray I put together for her and using it with glee, or her keeping a little perfume bottle of homemade perfume I made her on her special shelf.

I think of her avid cleanliness in the time leading up to her diagnosis and then beyond,  almost a reaction to the immunity destroying disease that was to claim her. How she would disinfect and clean so scrupulously her cosy and beautifully decorated and laid out flat. I think then of the sizzling fish cakes she made me, or the perfectly fried egg she'd present me, or vegetable bake next to a sea of baked beans. Somehow even the most meagre meal would be presented and proffered so kindly and thoughtfully that it would always taste delicious.

I think of her plans to start a degree in psychology just as she discovered her illness; and her new round table to dine at with her little boy and plans for all the things she planned to do for her and him.

I sometimes find myself questioning why? of course. But the disbelief reigns strong. That so solid a sister, so real and so a part of the very fabric of the very streets  she walked in Greenwich where she lived, has gone.

The streets where as children we walked together past the 1980's waste land which has now become the Hotel Ibis and Greenwich Picture House.

I am craving a large deep glass of red right now, but will persevere. My head is still not utterly clear.
Rest In Peace my beautiful sister. 1974-2011 xxxxxxxxx