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of myself, though these days, there are no shadows in my sister’s life.  As I watch Alice simultaneously make lemon meringue pie and gravy and hoping she doesn’t get them muddled, I tell her my plan.  Needless to say, she finds it hysterical.
    ‘You?   Give up booze and run a marathon?’  She snorts with laughter and spills her drink down the front of her. 
    ‘Half a marathon actually,’ I say sniffily, handing her a towel.  ‘Perhaps you should try it.’
    ‘Here, have a glass of wine.  How’s Greg?’ she replies, still sniggering as she pours me a glass.
    ‘I haven’t seen him.  And I won’t, thanks.  You’re not listening to me, Al.  Wine equals booze.  No.  Thank you.’
    She feels my forehead, a look of fake concern on her face.  ‘You feeling alright, Frankie?’  Then she thrusts the glass at me.
    Obstinately I put it down.  ‘I’ll make myself some tea if that’s ok.’  Which for some reason Alice fails to understand so I wave the kettle at her then go to look for Martha.
    Martha is five , with pink cheeks and little-girl hair that’s a mass of wayward curls.  She’s exactly the daughter I’d love to have myself one day - if I ever meet the right man.  She also loves my stories about fairy-tale brides and evil stepmothers – all totally made up, obviously.  I tell her a new one about the silly florist who ordered the wrong colour flowers and got turned into a bog fairy, which causes much hilarity.
    ‘Always look out for bog fairies, just in case.  In the bog,’ I whisper as Martha giggles, just as Alice walks into the room.  ‘Oops…’ I look at my sister who’s shaking her head and beckoning me out of the room.
    One of the pitfalls of having a lax parent means you overcompensate.  Alice has strict views on parenting.  On being an Aunt too, as she’s about to tell me – she’s looking frighteningly stern. 
    ‘Frankie, please do not say bog in front of your niece.  Last time you were here, I had to explain about shitfaced and the time before it was nipple piercing.   Honestly – words fail me.’
    I’d believe her, only words never fail Alice. 
    ‘Bog is a perfectly innocent word,’ I tell her.  ‘And anyway, a girl needs to know about these things, Al.  It’s my duty as her Aunt.  You can’t tie her to your apron strings forever, you know.’
    ‘Wait till you have your own.’  She glares at me.  ‘And she’s five, not fifteen – there’s a difference.  Are you staying for supper?’
    ‘Yes, please.’  I follow her into the kitchen , feeling more like her elder, errant daughter than her sister.  Then I remember she doesn’t know. 
    ‘Guess what Alice!  Something really exciting’s happened!  I’ve got my first celebrity wedding!’
    ‘No!’  Her eyes are like saucers.   My sensible, grown-up sister isn’t completely immune to gossip.  ‘Who!  Tell me!’
    ‘Only Maria Bristow and Pete McNamara,’ I say smugly.  ‘How cool is that!  I’m going to be famous!’
    ‘I’m not sure you’ll be famous, but it’s dead exciting!  You must take tons of photos Frankie!  And put it on your website...  I know – you could get a local paper to run a feature on you…’
    ‘I can’t until after the event,’ I tell her.  ‘They’ve sworn me to secrecy.’
    ‘Then what are you telling me for?  Oh Frankie – I hope you’re not blabbing to everyone…’
    ‘Of course not.   Anyway, I know you won’t tell.’
     
    As a result of massive amounts of willpower and my new regime, I’m feeling extremely virtuous.  Yet again, not a drop of alcohol has passed my lips.  When I awake on Monday, my precious day off, just like yesterday, I have a clear head and eyes that shine back at me as I brush my hair into a ponytail.  I make my hot water and lemon but my ankle’s still puffy from yesterday so I skip the run and switch the telly on instead.
    As I watch Jeremy Kyle, I’m struggling to ignore the Mars bar which I