Thank god for recovery – or I might be in Pentonville, not Notting Hill

I decided to take the kids on a tour of Buckingham Palace and Big Ben in the safety of the car a few weeks ago before lockdown was relaxed. Building Lego brick towers all weekend and taking the dog out for a walk has become like Groundhog Day. It’s always quite stressful if the dog is off the lead anyway.

The other day he emerged from the woods with a blue plastic bowl containing a kid’s rice cake. The dad was furious – quite rightly – and came charging towards me asking if I had a dog. “Keep your distance,” I screamed defensively, trying to maintain social distancing. But once he saw Muggles his heart softened.

“I can see he is a peaceful dog,” the man said stroking Muggles, who was lying on his back with his legs in the air exhausted from running back to me with the food. I was lucky he was so understanding. Now picnics are reinstated, my life will be a hell of a lot harder. Muggles is a horror show around food.

I had planned to take them on one of those open red-bus tours – long before coronavirus hit. OK, there is no changing of the guard but it is educational. “Can we go inside and meet a princess,” Lola asked. But as I was packing lunches and nappies, my friend pointed out that what I was about to do was illegal. Illegal?

“Well, it’s non-essential travel, isn’t it,” she said. It felt pretty essential to me.

Lola and Liberty aren’t really into exercise. How many times have I walked too far with them and thought shit I need an Uber to rescue me? This is a fail. It’s almost impossible to return, balancing the scooter, bike, balls, dolls, nappies, water and snacks on the pram –and if I tie the dog’s lead to the pram and he sees a cat, everything goes flying.

These days taxis are out of the question, as is phoning a friend to pick me up. There is just no way of sitting in a car safely two metres apart from another person. I keep pointing this out to my 87-year-old dad, who wants to hop into his secretary’s car to go his office with a mask on and his head out of the window.

But that word “illegal” kept popping into my head. Illegal? I felt anxiety rush through my body. How on earth did I once end up as a getaway driver for a burglar?

Vague memories start flooding back. I see myself 25 years ago in my clapped-out red car. I was asked to wait on the corner with the engine running. Suddenly the police swarmed on me and I was busted. It was like an episode of The Sweeney. My life was a shit show – practically every waking hour I must have been breaking the law. To this day, I still don’t now why I was sitting there – or who asked me!

Thank god I stuck with recovery after my dealer paid for me to go into rehab – or I might be in Pentonville, not leafy Notting Hill. I have to say he was pretty supportive. Ok, he was in love with me but he still knew it was game over if I got sober. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t make it?

When I left the clinic I rang my dealer from my parent’s home and he told me that if after 90 days – which is a milestone in 12-step recovery – I wanted to be an addict forever, he would let me return to him. But in the meantime, I was on my own. He rented me a car that was delivered to my door so that I could get to meetings. I could barely see straight so my mum dropped me at my first few groups and waited for me outside.

Sometimes every minute was a struggle – but then I would feel a sense of joy. “Yes! I can do it – life is worth living – I’m free.” The next minute I wanted to give up. But after 90 days I had deleted my dealer’s phone number. My life had changed.