You might think that this was a very profound and true thing that he'd just said.

So had I.

The first eight hundred times I heard it.

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But now I recognize it for what it really is. It's the first line, the opening paragraph, in Dad's "The Evils of Drink" lecture. I heard it so many times in my teenage years that I could practically recite it myself.

And, God knows, I don't want to end up like Auntie Julia, I thought.

"And, God knows, you don't want to end up like Aunt Julia," said Dad wearily.

Poor Dad. Auntie Julia was his youngest sister and he'd had to bear the brunt of most of her alcohol-related crises.

When she would lose her job because she was drunk at work, the first thing she did was to call Dad.

When she got knocked down by a bicycle because she was wandering the road drunk late at night who did the police call?

That's right.

Dad.

It's money down the drain, I thought.

"And it's money down the drain," he said heavily.

Money I don't have.

"Money you don't have," he continued.

And it'll destroy my health.

"And it'll destroy your health," he advised.

It'll ruin my looks.

"It solves nothing," he concluded.

Wrong! He forgot to tell me that it'll ruin my looks. I'd better remind him.

"And it'll ruin my looks," I reminded him gently.

"Oh, yes," he said hurriedly. "And it'll ruin your looks."

"Dad, I'm sorry for everything," I told him. "I know I've been really mean to everyone and a worry to you all, but I'll stop. I promise."

"Good girl." He gave me a little smile.

I felt as if I was about three and a half all over again.

"I know it can't be easy for you," he said.

"It's still no excuse to behave like a bitch," I admitted.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

The only sounds were of Kate snoring happily--maybe she was as glad as everyone else that I'd had my comeuppance--and me sniffing back tears.

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"And you'll let the girls watch their shows on the TV?" Dad inquired.

"Of course," I sniveled.

"And you'll stop shouting at us all?" he asked.

"I will," I said, hanging my head.

"And you won't throw any more things?"

"I won't throw any more things."

"You're a good girl, you know." He half smiled at me. "No matter what your mother and your sisters say."

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eight

After Dad had given me my pep talk the previous evening he kissed me--awkwardly, mind you--but it was still a kiss, and without being able to look me in the eyes he told me he loved me.

Then he gently shook Kate's soft pink little foot and left the room.

And I lay on my bed for a long time thinking about what he had said. And what I had overheard Mum and my sisters saying earlier.

And some kind of change came over me.

Some kind of peace entered my soul.

Life goes on.

Even my life.

I had spent the last month releasing myself on my own recognizance from life. The excessive sleeping, the drinking, the exercising, the not washing myself. They were all things I had used to keep life at bay.

But life was an irrepressible kind of a chap, and no matter how much I tried to pretend that he wasn't there he kept poking his head through any gaps in my defenses and trying to get me to play with him.

"Oh, there you are," he would say exuberantly, as bouncy as a rubber ball, as I lay on my bed alone.

"Oh, fuck off and leave me alone," I would reply. But after Dad's talk I decided that I had to start living again.

And I had to stop thinking just of myself.

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I had to do it. And I would be able to do it.

I still loved James very much. I still wanted him back. I was still heart- broken. I still missed him like a limb. I would probably still cry myself to sleep every night for the next century.

But I was no longer utterly crippled by my loss.

I had been cracked across the ankles by the cricket bat of James's infidelity and betrayal. It had sent me crashing to the ground, leaving me lying there gasping with pain, unable to stand up.

But, contrary to first impressions, nothing was broken. Now I was clambering painfully to my feet and seeing if I could still walk.

And though I was limping badly, I discovered to my joy that I could.

I'm not saying that I didn't feel jealous. Or angry.

Because I did.

But it wasn't so bad. The feeling wasn't as big. Wasn't as powerful. Wasn't as horrible.

Put it this way. I still wouldn't have turned down the chance to punch Denise in the stomach or to blacken James's eye but I no longer entertained fantasies of sneaking into their secret love nest and pouring a huge vat of boiling oil over their sleeping bodies.

Believe me, this was progress.

So bloodied and bowed, but not as bowed, I decided to relaunch myself on the world with the minimum of fanfare.

As I drifted off to sleep I counted my blessings.

Well, that's not exactly true. I didn't actually count them. I didn't say to myself, "Well, that's five blessings that I have. Now I can go to sleep happy."

But I did think about the good things in my life:

I had a beautiful daughter.

I had a loving family. (Well, I was sure they'd be loving again just as soon as I stopped behaving like an Antichrist.)

I was still youngish.

I had somewhere to live.

I had a job to go back to in five months.

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I had my health (bizarre--I never thought I'd hear myself say that this side of ninety).

And most of all, and I'd no idea where it came from, I had some hope.

I slept like a baby.

Actually, I did nothing of the sort. Did I wake every two hours, demand- ing to be fed or changed? No I did not. But I slept very peacefully.

And that was plenty for now.

I would love to be able to tell you that the next morning when I woke up the rain had stopped and the clouds had been chased away and the sun had come out on a brand-new blue-skied day.

However, real life isn't like that.

It was still drizzling.

But what the hell.

I woke at the usual crack-of-dawn time and fed Kate. I gently probed my feelings, the way you probe the gum around a sore tooth with your tongue. And I was delighted to discover that my mood hadn't changed from the previous evening. I was still feeling alive and hopeful.