I wonder about Freddie

I have issues with alcohol. I think it has a habit of sucking the good out of people. That's a bit wrong, rather I think it sends the harsh voice we all have, running riot through the heads of those that overindulge.

I'm not talking of course about the odd birthday blow out. I'm thinking more of the constant almost invisible sozzling that leads on a regular basis to obliteration.

I heard today that one of my great aunts (Jackie) has been in hospital through her drinking. She's had a problem for many years now. She's a funny woman, a woman with an old school BBC plummy accent. Which always struck me as odd as her stock is very traditional working class. That's not to say the rest of the family were cockneys or anything, far from it. My grandmother and her sisters are an elegant bunch. Well mannered, well turned out, well spoken. Head turningly stunning almost without exception in their younger years. But never posh.
Except Auntie Jackie.
Who sounded to the manor born. I always wondered if she cultivated the accent, or picked it up, almost accidentally.
She's being picked up herself now, on a regular basis, by neighbours, her kids, strangers who found her in the street and took her to hospital.

My mum is a nurturer. She nurtures and feels a responsibility to do so in situations where others would have long since washed their hands. It's one of the things I love about her. She does it so well. It's something I hope to inherit.
She's worried of course, devastated by the images of the awful journey Jackie's been on. Discharged herself to get back to.

I found myself trying to comfort Mum. Failing miserably. Telling her the only person capable of helping Jackie is Jackie. I'm sure that's true. Not sure it's enough of a reason for others to stop trying. I knew I sounded hard where I wanted to sound soft.

My stepmother was a drunk. I wish someone had told me. I just thought she was a bitch. She used to ring me up, say things, then accuse me of lying when i asked her about them.

If I'd known I'd have realised she didn't remember. That the hysterical conversations were symptomatic of her inebriation. I though she was trying to get at me.

When she died I told everyone she had choked on a twiglet. I really believed it. I thought it was a bit weird, a freak accident. It's what my sister and I were told, the official line has since changed, to something more credible.
A salmon sandwich.

(I'm joking, I know, it's inappropriate, for some reason, I found it wildly funny, the line's heart trouble)

I think the saddest thing about drink is that it blurs the edges of the good stuff. Makes everything an up and down and swallows the gentle equilibrium of life at the best of times.

Freddie Flintoff had a lot to celebrate this week. It'll probably never get any better. I watched him lurching towards the congratulations bus, slurring his speech on camera and stumbling up the path to Downing Street, I couldn't help wondering....

Would he remember the moments he'll be trying to replay in his eighties. Would he feel proud as he saw himself amidst all the ticketape, swaying with his baby daughter in his arms, or would he just feel like it was an opportunity missed. A mindblowing memory dulled by the depressive effects of alcohol?

I hope not, that would be such a waste.