Comment: My mother was an alcoholic. Minimum pricing might have bought her time
I REMEMBER the last time I saw my mother; we were in a ward in Glasgow Royal Infirmary. My six-year-old mind didn’t understand it at the time, but my mother was dying. Her face and hands were yellow, as were the “whites” of her eyes. Years of alcohol abuse were finally taking their toll and her internal organs were beginning to shut down. She spoke softly but seemed to me every bit herself. I know now that she was bravely trying to act as though there was nothing wrong with her, for my sake, despite the visible signs of her illness.
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