My friend Amy and the call that always comes

WHEN you love someone who suffers from the disease of addiction you await the phone call.

There will be a phone call. The sincere hope is that the call will be from the addict themselves, telling you they’ve had enough, that they’re ready to stop, ready to try something new. Of course, though, you fear the other call, the sad nocturnal chime from a friend or relative telling you it’s too late, she’s gone. Frustratingly it’s not a call you can ever make: it must be received. It is impossible to intervene.

I’ve known Amy Winehouse for years. When I first met her around Camden she was just some twit in a pink satin jacket shuffling round bars with mutual friends, most of whom were in cool indie bands or peripheral Camden figures Withnail-ing their way through life on impotent charisma. Carl Barrat told me that “Winehouse” was a jazz singer, which struck me as anomalous in that crowd. To me, with my limited musical knowledge, this information placed Amy beyond an invisible boundary of relevance. “Jazz singer? She must be some kind of eccentric,” I thought. I chatted to her anyway though, and she was sweet and peculiar but most of all vulnerable.