When the chips are down
Opening the bundle of newspaper, the smell of vinegar lingered in the air. Eating a portion of salty chips from the local chippy, I demolished the whole thing, smacking my lips.
This was a daily occurrence.
Growing up, I had a slim figure compared to my friends.
The running joke was that I had to jog around in the shower to get wet.
Only, after suffering such a devastating loss, I turned to food and alcohol to fill the void.
My dad Mervyn, 38, had been murdered by the IRA in our own home.
The troubles in Northern Ireland had been going on for 30 years in our hometown, but I never expected my soldier dad to be taken in this way.
Aged19, my whole life changed.
Facing a battle of grief, it was clear that I was struggling.
I didn’t consume a huge amount, but everything I put in my mouth was greasy, battered, and dripping in oil.
Things started to
