Sid has popped round to my Mum's for dinner...

...And he's drunk and maudlin on red wine. Not only has he the tenacity to come here on New Year's Day, a family holiday, but he was already on the bus when he called.

"How do you even know where my mother lives?" I ask him when he stumbles through the door, clutching a bottle wrapped in paper.

"You mentioned it once," he says dismissively.

"I don't think I did."

"Sure you did."

Even though he has never met my mother, he moves past her with a brief wave and walks into the kitchen. This could end badly. We follow him. "You've brought wine then?" I say.

"Yes. Where's your opener?"

My mother is taken aback. "Just on the side there. It's a fancy new one Sharon bought me for Christmas. I haven't worked out how to operate it yet."

Sid slides the cork from the bottle in two seconds and throws the contraption back on the counter with the cork still skewered.

"Let me get you a glass," my mum says, opening a cupboard. Sid takes a swig straight from the bottle, and doesn't offer it around. My Mum gives him a glass anyway. "Dinner will be ready soon. Just leftover turkey I'm afraid."

Sid frowns. "Leftover from Christmas?" She nods. "How long does meat keep in the fridge, would you say?"

"I... think it will be OK."

Sid accepts this and fills his glass. At the dinner table, he is unusually quiet. My Mum hates quiet. "I think it's nice you use the bus," she tells him. "It's good for the environment." Sid of course couldn't give a shit about the environment, and is only taking the bus because he doesn't own a car. The fact that he is drunk probably wouldn't stop him.

I don't drive on evenings when I've been drinking, but the mornings are different. When I woke up this morning, Cheryl dressing for work and cursing softly, I had no hangover and smiled. Only when I stood under scalding water in the shower, watching a slug slither into a fold of the curtain to avoid the spray, did I realise how drunk I was. When I cleaned my teeth I couldn't taste the mint toothpaste. When I started to soap myself I gave up, exhausted. In the car, leaning forward to watch for pedestrians with extra vigilance, I had to pull over twice to vomit. I feel better now.

"I'm going to buy a Porsche, like an agent should," Sid says.

"A Porsche?" My Mum says, impressed even though she wouldn't know a Porsche from a Lamborghini. "My son must be making you money!"

"Not a proper one," Sid says. "An old one, like that X Files fella has on Californication. I'm going to keep it dirty and smash one of the headlights out."

"Sid, that character is not supposed to be a role model," I say, watching a lump of margarine melt on my potatoes.

Sid ignores me. "And your son has made me no money."

"Oh," my Mother says.

"The advance barely paid for overheads. But you struggle along, don't you?"

"I suppose so. Still, when the book comes out, you'll both see something then, won't you?"

"Oh, don't get your hopes up, Mrs. Hardy." He drains his glass and pours the last of the wine. "There are hundreds of books released every week. The chances of even getting noticed are small. Especially with a Sci-Fi novel."

I look at my Mum. "Do you see? This is what I'm up against?"

"Yes," she says. "You are a bit negative. Why did you even sign him?"

"Oh, I like the book. I think Christopher has real talent."

"But talent's not enough?"

Sid shrugs. "You never know. Stranger things have happened. But people keep buying the same thing. Last night I saw an ad on the BBC for a new version of Sense and Sensibility. Is it me, or do they just keep making the same costume dramas over and over?"

"Why are you here?" I ask him. "Why are you drunk? In my mother's house."

He looks at me. "I like you," he says.

"Oh."

My mother is unmoved. "Then why are you so unsupportive?"

"It's OK, mum..."

"No, it's my house, as you say, and I'd like to know." She has colour in her cheeks for the first time in a long while. She is almost angry, an emotion I forgot she possesses. Or almost does. "Why don't you work for him?"

"Oh I do, Mrs. Hardy. And I never grumble about the shit I have to shovel. But I'm afraid your son is a temperamental artist." My Mum looks unconvinced. "Believe me, most of them are when it comes to their art. You see, the editor assigned to Christopher's book is asking for some changes to meet the publisher's criteria. Changes that were acknowledged before the deal was signed. But now, for reasons only these writers can make sense of, he is refusing to carry out the alterations, leaving me dealing with worried and frustrated Harper Collins people every day. And if he doesn't pull his finger out, the whole deal could go tits up."

My mother looks at me. "You stupid boy," she says. "What are you playing at?"

"I had no idea," I say. "He didn't tell me."

Sid gulps at his wine. "It's your job to worry about the writing, mine to worry about everything else."

My mother is definitely angry now. "Go home and get writing."

"OK, I will."

"Now. I mean it."

"Right now?"

"Yes. I won't let you throw it away. You owe it to everyone who believes in you, not just yourself."

"Can't I finish my sausages?"

"NOW!"

I get up slowly and walk out, leaving my mother and my agent chatting about my life and work. When I get home, I rearrange my songs on iTunes until Cheryl gets home, and we watch a DVD.