When Lisa Snowdon, 54, recently admitted to feeling like ‘the devil’ after a few drinks, I was reminded of a Jekyll and Hyde version of myself I’m not particularly proud of.
I’ve never had the longest fuse, but about four years ago, aged 46, I morphed into a terrible drunk on wine.
Once I’d passed the three-glass mark, I very easily became a caricature of myself at my angriest.
My rage was like a rising tide of fury that came out of nowhere – like a thermometer with the mercury steadily creeping up until it exploded, usually out of my mouth in a wild tirade.
Often
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