Amy being alive meant there was hope for my heroin-addicted younger sister. When the singer died, my world caved in. What chance did we have now?
I remember where I was the day that Amy Winehouse died. I had run into a shop in Soho to buy a birthday present, when I heard an exchange between the girl at the till and her customer. “She died of an overdose. It was just on the radio,” the cashier said in a “sad news” voice while counting out the change. Both shook their heads, tutting, saying “what a waste” and other stock phrases that people keep in reserve for when the talented die young.
Whenever there’s mention of Amy – which is often at the moment because, with this new film, she’s suddenly everywhere again – the same feeling is dredged up from a crevasse in my guts. The sucker punch that gave me jelly legs. The way my mouth went slack and dry. The fact that my teeth chattered even though it was July.
Related: Amy review – a sad, stark study of a public life and death
She was the youngest, most vulnerable and most impressionable. She never had a chance
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