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uncontrollable rages. But then he would switch without warning and start praying, reciting the rosary and attending church.
    We would often hear him talking to himself, conversing with someone who wasn’t there. You couldn’t engage him in direct conversation for fear of him overreacting and turning aggressive. He began accusing us all of plotting against him. His ability to discern between reality and his hallucinations had become non-existent.
    This cycling torrent of abuse and neglect went on for over a decade, getting worse and worse. Mum, the bravest woman I had ever known, had to leave. She had no choice. Her once-beloved husband - her hero, our dad - had changed beyond any recognition.
    With her marriage in tatters, mum fled England with my two sisters, Laura and Katie, and moved back to Ireland. Of course, as the middle child, that automatically entitled me to self-diagnosed stroppy middle-child-syndrome. And strop I did. There was no way I was leaving London having already started a hairdressing apprenticeship. So, I stayed and tried to help sort my dad’s alcoholism and schizophrenic behavior with the help of mental health advisors.
    Back in Dublin, Lickarse Laura (as she was known to me and Katie), the eldest sister and the Einstein of the family, decided to become a career girl and studied for a doctorate in Psychology. When Laura graduated, it was mum’s “proudest moment”. In my secret opinion though, Laura shared one too many of our dad’s schizophrenic traits beneath all that professionalism and condescension to the human race. Laura could be the life and soul of any party and everyone was her best friend; however get one too many drinks in her and she would revert into a female version of our dad; patronizing, intimidating and erratic.
    Katie, my youngest sister at just 22 years young, was currently residing in rehab. She was however allowed home for just a few days at Christmas. She was in rehab due to her newfound hobby: shoving every which substance up her nose that she could get her hands on. To top it off, her homegrown cannabis plant had been lovingly tendered and watered by none other than our poor, unsuspecting mum. Bless her, mum was as clueless as she was penniless.
    ‘I ought to get shares in Kleenex!’ Mum used to sob down the phone to me on our weekly phone calls. ‘Katie goes ‘trew a box in a day. I can’t keep up with the child. And she has a constant sinus infection. Her poor nose is collapsing with all the congestion.’
    Katie and her tree- hugging, weirdo mates went too far one night a couple of months back. She had been found wandering the streets, totally out of her ‘hippie-dippy trolley’, sobbing; claiming that she had committed a murder and would never forgive herself.
    She was pic ked up by the local priest and confessed all to him. The account was a bit garbled by the time the poor guy got hold of my dear old mum. He was clearly suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress, but this is pretty much what Katie confessed to (in her continuous motor-mouth style):
    ‘I had a few friends around , Father, while mammy was at mass. We had a few jars and, you know, well, I looked at poor Moses (that’s mammy’s budgie). I felt sorry for him, sure he’s always locked up; so I thought I would give Moses a little treat. I only put a little bit of me lager in his birdcage, but then I accidentally left his door open. Before I knew it, he was whizzing around and around mammy’s lounge like a fighter pilot at a hundred miles an hour. It was just so cool to watch him. He looked so happy, so free. But then Moses kinda crashed into the glass patio door. That was it, Father, he dropped to the floor like a bomb. He was flat on his back, legs bolt upright up and stiff. I had to do something and fast… so I panicked and ran up to mammy’s bedroom. She has one of those ceiling fans, so I kept throwing Moses up into it, you know Father, just to try and get some wind beneath his