It is with a kind of fear and trepidation that I begin to write my story, how much to tell, how much to hold back, so as not to expose too much or too little.

My story starts 49 years ago in a little town called Felixton in Zululand, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. It was Christmas Day and my father lay in his bed in a drunken stupor, as he had done many times before. My mother had asked me to wake him for Christmas lunch.

I stood by his bed, all of 7 years old, shaking him to wake him up, but sadly he did not wake. My father had died in his sleep at the age of 38 of multiple organ failure, as a result of excessive alcohol intake.