On Boxing Day, when my first child was four months old, I woke up in A&E, unsure how I’d got there. I had stiches in the back of my head, a cannula in my hand, a blinding headache and rock-hard, leaking breasts. Gradually I was able to piece events together. An incident involving huge quantities of raspberry vodka, a staircase and the hard metal edge of a radiator right at the bottom.
My son’s first Christmas should have been special and, by and large, it was. However, having spent the past year either pregnant or breastfeeding, I’d decided to treat myself to some alcohol. I’d expressed plenty of milk in advance, so what could possibly go wrong? Falling backwards downstairs blind drunk, that’s what.
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