It was a huge risk to take. I am gambling on there being some remnant left of the man that I had fallen in love with. I start to think that I may have been mistaken.

Then Mark calls. He has decided to resume the mortgage payments. And take the house off the market.

Then he offers to pay maintenance for Mia. That makes me suspicious. Is this sudden change of heart merely a cynical ploy to protect his assets? I tell him that I meant what I said; I have no intention of taking him to court.

He says he knows that. Then tells me that he set up an account for Mia when I left. And he has been paying into it ever since. He offers to transfer the money into my account. I ask him why he hadn’t told me about it before.

He responds with “I suppose I’ve just been angry at you for leaving me”. He’s been angry at me for four years? That is a lot of anger. I am surprised; he has never been very good at articulating his emotions. I ask him if he has been having therapy. He hasn’t. Apparently he has just been doing a lot of thinking.

Then he throws me by asking why I left. He says that I never really explained. And that it would really help him if he knew. I tell him that I wrote something for him at the time; I wanted to get it all down while it was still fresh in my mind. I had decided that I would only give it to him when he asked. I was starting to think he never would.

I get it up on screen. I haven’t read it for years. And I need to make sure I’m not being too harsh.

I don’t think I ever said sorry for leaving. I’m not even sure I was fully able to explain why I had to go. And I owe you at least that much.

January 16th 2003 – I’ll never forget the night you came into my life and turned it all upside down. You proposed just three months later. And I accepted immediately.

I had some of the best times of my life with you. We spent over a decade of our lives together. And we have a beautiful daughter. Nothing can change that.

I know that what I did to you was terrible. But you said to me “If you’re going to leave me, leave me now and let me get through the pain instead of making me live it every day”. And you were right. I was unhappy. I would have made you live that pain every day.

So I tried to do it as quickly and as humanely as possible. To you it must have seemed like I didn’t care. I was so cold and clinical about it. But I had to be. I had to be cruel to be kind. I had to give you a chance of happiness with someone else. We could never have been happy again.

Why did I leave? Believe me if I had thought there was a way to make it work I would have stayed. But there wasn’t. We had grown up and apart. I still loved you but not in the way I should have. Not in the way I used to.

Things were bad between us for a long time before I left. You know that. I even suggested counselling once and you said I should go for counselling by myself because I was the one with the problem. Do you remember that?

Then once I gave up my career, the end became inevitable. What you would undoubtedly consider as simply being careful with money, I considered controlling. I started to feel like a non-entity.

I don’t even think you realised how close I came to losing the plot when Mia was born. When they whisked her away I thought we had lost our baby. That first week we spent with her in hospital changed something inside me forever. I was absolutely petrified. My love for her made me feel so vulnerable. You were so strong for the three of us and I will always love you for that.

I barely slept those first few months in case she stopped breathing. They had me complete a questionnaire at the doctors – apparently I was borderline post-natal depression. They had me fill in another form. And this time I ticked what I knew were the ‘right’ answers and they declared that I didn’t have post-natal depression after all.

Maybe I should have asked for help but that would have been weak. They may have thought I wasn’t capable of looking after Mia and taken her away from me. Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds now but that’s how I felt at the time. I felt like I didn’t have a voice anymore. I felt totally useless.

I tried to tell you that. And I asked for your support. But your reaction was to take me on a shopping spree. Then you got angry with me for not being grateful for all the new clothes you were forcing on me. And I got angry with you for not knowing who I was anymore.

I remember talking about having another baby and I said to you that I couldn’t go through it again. That it was too hard. And you said that I was exaggerating and that it couldn’t have been that bad. But it was. And you couldn’t see it. I already felt like a useless non-entity and you dismissing the way I felt just made me worse.

You were telling me what I did and didn’t feel. Do you remember when I would turn the heating up because I was cold and you would turn it down and tell me that I wasn’t because you weren’t? It started to feel like that all the time for me.

After a while I managed to pull myself together. And I knew what I had to do. Our marriage hadn’t worked for a long time. Leaving you and taking our daughter was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

The last few years of our marriage, things had got so bad that I found it really hard to remember the good times. But now that we have been apart for a while, I’m starting to remember them again. And it makes me so sad.

When Mia cries because she misses you, I know I’m responsible for the situation. But I still maintain that I did what was best for all three of us. And you would never have had that closeness with Mia if I had stayed because you would have relied on me to look after her.

I’m sorry I broke your heart. I’m sorry I destroyed your world as you knew it. I don’t think you will truly appreciate how unhappy we were until you find the happiness you deserve with someone else. Maybe then you will understand why I had to leave and then maybe, just maybe, you’ll forgive me and I’ll finally be able to forgive myself.

I email it to him with tears streaming down my face. I have spent the past four years trying not to think about the pain I must have caused him when I left because I couldn’t bear the guilt.

I’m getting ready for bed when the phone rings. It’s Mark. He sounds choked up. I tell him I’m sorry. His voice cracks as he says that I have nothing to apologise for.

He says he could see what I was going through but felt powerless to help. And he is the one who is sorry because I was right. We could never have been happy again.

We talk properly for the first time in years. He says that my letter answered a lot of questions for him. He couldn’t understand why it had been so easy for me to walk away. But now he knows it wasn’t.

I ask him if we can try to be friends again. He says he would like that very much. I put the phone down. Then find that I am smiling through my tears; it finally feels like closure (for both of us).

I know him. And his silence is an indication of guilt.

I spend a sleepless night beating myself up for being such an idiot. Then I lean over and pick up my grandmother's necklace.

And that fire in my belly ignites. How dare he not return any of my calls? Or respond to my messages? He has left me with only one option.

The alarm goes off. And I climb (bleary eyed) out of bed. I feel very lightheaded. Then I realise that I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning; anger is a great appetite suppressant. I try (unsuccessfully) to force some toast down my throat.

Then I drop Mia off. And go to the school office to let them know about the head lice; that way they can get the standard letter out; there has been a case of head lice reported in your child’s class, please check your child’s hair. But there are too many members of the Mummy Mafia around. And I don’t want Mia’s anonymity to be compromised. So I hang back.

It doesn’t take them long to spot me and start whispering. Then the one who saw the (bumper) packs of condoms in my trolley asks me if I had a nice weekend. The others predictably dissolve into childish giggles.

I tell her it was wonderful. And that I had lots of sex. Then I add "I'm very tired now though, far too tired to be standing around gossiping. Do you know what? You should try it.” That wipes the smug look off her face.

Then I add “In fact, you should all try it”. Their expressions tell me that I may have hit a nerve (or two). I smile sweetly as I walk past them.

Then I head straight to Mark’s offices. I have a quick look in the car park to make sure I have my facts right.

His new sports car is easy to spot; the personalised number plates are a bit of a give-away. And it must have cost at least four years worth of mortgage payments.

I take several deep breaths before I walk inside. The reception desk is at the front of a large open plan office. The receptionist is very pretty and blonde. I ask her if she used to be a model. She smiles and proudly tells me that she was a catalogue model for three years. That clears up the confusion. Our mutual friend had the wrong receptionist.

Then Jade appears. And she doesn’t look too pleased to see me. I speak to the pretty one “I’m here to see Mark”.

Jade practically knocks her out of the way before asking me in her snootiest receptionists voice “May I ask what it’s regarding?” I respond with “No. You may not”.

She tells me he is in a meeting. Both her tone and manner imply that I have just crawled out from under her shoe. I tell her I’ll wait. Then I remind her that she is a receptionist. And suggest that she loses the attitude.

She responds by waving her left hand in my face “I’m also Mark’s fiancé”. Fiancé? Do people really still use that word?

Then my eyes involuntarily fall to her round tummy. She notices. And starts shouting at me “No, I’m not bloody pregnant. I don’t want children yet, I’m only twenty-fucking-seven!”

I’m shocked. She looks a lot older. Poor girl must have had a hard life. And her posh accent appears to have slipped into an Essex twang.

People are starting to peer over their computers. I tell her that she isn’t being very professional.

Then I notice a moustached man who looks very familiar. I know I have seen him recently. But I just can’t place him. He notices me staring at him. And promptly adjusts his computer screen to block my view.

He clearly doesn’t want to be seen. That immediately makes me suspicious. So I start to walk towards his desk. Then I remember him. He’s the strange little man from the bank that came to value the house; the one that told me Mark had defaulted on the mortgage.

Everything is starting to fall into place. And I am absolutely furious. Mark tricked me into agreeing to put the house on the market by making me believe it was in danger of being repossessed. I took it all at face value because it never occurred to me that he could be so deceitful.

He takes a quick peek at me from behind his computer. Then gets up and quickly starts walking off in the opposite direction. I follow him until he disappears into the men’s toilets. I hesitate for a moment. Then I go in. I have to get to the bottom of this.

There is a (startled looking) man at the urinal. But I can’t see Moustachio anywhere.

He must have locked himself inside one of the cubicles. I get on my knees. And check under the doors until I see a pair of feet. Then I bang on the door “You’re going to have to come out sooner or later”. He doesn’t respond. I bang harder. “I know who you are and I’ll stay here all day if I have to”.

He says he’ll come out. I stand back to let him open the door. He appears to be very nervous and agitated “What do you want? Who are you?”

Oh dear. Now that I see him close up, I realise that it isn’t the same man at all (although in my defence he is short and has a moustache). I tell him I made a mistake. But that doesn’t explain why he hid behind his computer. He tells me that he doesn’t like being stared at. Fair enough. I apologise. Then walk out as casually as I can.

I go back to reception with as much dignity as I can muster. And sit behind a large plant so I can squirm with embarrassment in relative privacy.

I finally emerge when I hear Mark’s voice. We have to walk past Moustachio to get to his office. I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead.

Jade is right behind us. I tell her that I would rather speak to her fiancé alone. But she follows us into his office anyway.

I ask him why he told Mia to lie to me about his new car. He denies it. Then I ask him why he parked said new car out of sight when he dropped her off.

He opens his mouth to speak but Jade gets there before him “He didn’t want you to see it because then you’d ask him for more money and you already take advantage of his good nature as it is”.

He asks her to leave. She is clearly a liability; so I say I am happy for her to stay. But he opens the door. And sends her out. He avoids my gaze “Is that what you told her?” At least he has the decency to look ashamed of himself.

I took nothing when I left him.

I had given up a lucrative career to care for our daughter; that alone would have allowed me to take him to the cleaners. I knew my legal entitlements very well. But I had no moral claim on a company that he had built from scratch.

And the fact that he increasingly valued money and material possessions above all else was one of the reasons I had left him. So I took a very principled stance.

I also knew that he would have had a breakdown if I had taken any of his precious money. That would have rendered him incapable of being a father to Mia; that in turn would have left her struggling to deal with his rejection and abandonment.

Then she would have carried those issues into every relationship she had with a man. Yes. I know. I overthink (a lot).

So I had told him that the only thing I wanted from him was to be a father to Mia. I didn’t even ask for maintenance. And he didn’t offer it. It was only when I ran out of money that I asked him to pay the mortgage.

I ask him to explain how he can afford a new car when he can’t afford the mortgage payments. He remains silent.

He is clearly going through some kind of mid-life crisis (sports car). And his judgement is seriously impaired (Jade).

But I will not be taken for a fool. I am an intelligent woman. And my pride needs to remind him of that fact.

I tell him that I am perfectly within my rights to instruct a lawyer. He would then have to give full disclosure of all his assets. And he would be forced to make maintenance payments to me accordingly “I have a feeling that would amount to more than the mortgage payments”.

The colour drains out of his face. And any residue guilt I felt for leaving him evaporates.

I open the door to leave. Then turn back to put him out of his misery “But I’m not going to do that because my values are very different from yours. I’m going to leave it between you and your conscience, assuming you still have one”.

I stop at reception and take a bottle of head lice treatment out of my bag. I hand it to Jade “There’s enough there for both of you”.

I walk out with a little spring in my step. Then realise that I’m absolutely starving!

My hips are bruised. My legs ache. My feet are deformed by blisters. My hair is frizzy. And I stink.

But I’ve done it; I have completed the Tour du Mont Blanc!

Admittedly I had no idea of the scale of what I was undertaking when I agreed to do it. In fact, I didn’t even realise that I had agreed to do it;

“Shall we go away together this summer? Or do you already have plans for the two weeks that Mia is away?”

I quickly calculate the months in my head April, May, June, July, August. He’s talking five months ahead! I (casually) tell him I hadn’t made any plans yet. And that I’m open to suggestions.

Unfortunately the fireworks going off in my head are quite loud and drown out half of what he’s saying. I manage to catch the tail end of it “.......so what do you think about Mont Blanc?”

I think snow, log cabin, open fire, us naked on rug in front of open fire in log cabin with snow (falling outside) ....."Yes!"

Then he (inexplicably) starts talking about how we should do some weekend hikes to prepare. And that I’m going to have to travel light because my backpack shouldn’t weigh more than one fifth of my body weight.

“Obviously I’ll carry the tent and poles but you’ll need to carry the sleeping bags”.

Excuse me?

I’m still trying to work out why we need a tent when he starts listing what I need to take; two pairs of shorts, two t-shirts, two pairs of knickers, two pairs of hiking socks and two sports bras.

“The trek should take eleven days but if we do a few ten hour days we can do it in eight”. Trek? Is that what I just agreed to?

I have to put him straight “Jake...” He interrupts me with “It’s so nice to have a girlfriend who wants to do these things with me”.

Then he gives me a big hug. “I’m sorry sweetheart, I interrupted you. What were you going to say?”

.“I was going to say that...” I hesitate. He looks so happy. “...I can’t wear the same knickers four days in a row- it’s very unhygienic”.

He laughs affectionately. Apparently you wash one set of clothes every night. At the campsite. Bollocks. I’d forgotten about the camping.

My chest is starting to feel tight. I can’t do it.

Jake's timing continues to be (annoyingly) impeccable “I’m really impressed that you’re willing to step so far outside your comfort zone”.

I force a smile “Oh, I’m always looking for new ways to challenge myself”.

I’ve only slept in a tent once before. Perhaps it won’t be as bad the second time. Maybe it’s just something that you get used to.

“We won’t have to camp every night”. Thank fuck for that. “We can stay in refuges”. Refuges? As in huts?

He goes into an elaborate explanation but basically they are huts. I try to be positive; at least a hut will be safer than a tent.

Then he mentions that you sleep in dorms. Dorms? With other people? I draw the line at that.

I explain that I do not sleep in rooms with people I do not know. You are at your most vulnerable when you’re sleeping. It is an experience I can only share with those I know, love and trust.

He asks me what I think will happen “I don’t know. They may try and molest me, what if I wake up and some freak is wanking over my feet? Or some psycho slits my throat because I remind him of his ex who cheated on him with his brother!”

It occurs to me that watching Jerry Springer whilst on the treadmill every morning has warped my perception of people somewhat.

So I laugh (hysterically) to show him that I’m only joking “No, seriously, what if they snore or talk in their sleep?”

Jake suggests ear plugs. I respond without thinking “But then I won’t hear the psycho perverts creeping up on me will I?”

I laugh hysterically again “No, seriously, ear plugs are a good idea”.

I’ll just have to take caffeine pills and stay awake all night.

He smiles uncertainly then suggests we go shopping. I cheer up until I realise we’re going shopping for “proper hiking clothes”.

Jake buys me the perfect pair of Rab black shorts which I team with a tight fitting black Rab t-shirt and a (surprisingly) stylish fitted red Marmot jacket.

The ugly brown hiking boots don’t quite work but I still look pretty chic (in a professional hiker kind of way).

I put the clothes away and forget all about it (or enter a state of sub-conscious denial) until I find myself meeting Jake at Geneva airport (he has been mountaineering in the Alps for a month).

It’s a wonderfully romantic reunion. He picks me up and swings me around, our lips locked together.

Then he asks me if I’ve done any preparation for our trek. Of course I have; I’ve had a manicure and pedicure as well being waxed in every conceivable area to within an inch of my life.

But I realise that isn’t the sort of preparation he is referring to so I mumble something about ‘hill walking’ before suggesting we get to our hotel as soon as possible (we’d agreed that a nice comfortable bed was a good idea after a month apart).

We set off from Chamonix the next morning and the first hour or so on flat ground is lovely. But then we start the ascent. And my (11kg) backpack starts to feel pretty heavy.

The weight is designed to balance on the hips so that it takes the pressure off your back. It works. My back is fine. But my hips feel red raw.

I want to scream. But I can’t. It’s too soon to start whining about how bloody hard this is. Especially as he told me that today was going to be an “easy day”.

I grit my teeth, walk through the pain and try to ignore the incessant voice in my head “What the fuck were you thinking?” “You cannot do another seven days of this” and occasionally, “Hmmm...his bum looks very pert”.

He notices that I’m limping. My beautifully pedicured feet are covered in big nasty lumps. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Jake is obviously concerned too because he immediately takes his first aid kit out. He wraps the offending toes in cotton wool, puts plasters over the top and tells me that I’m good to go.

“Ok. Is the hospital close by?”

He studies my face “Are you serious?” I’m getting a bit annoyed. “Yes! You saw those things on my feet”.

Jake bursts out laughing. I find his lack of sympathy shocking. “They’re blisters! You’ll get them the first few days because your feet are so soft. Have you never had blisters before?”

Obviously not; otherwise I wouldn't have embarrassed myself by suggesting they needed urgent medical attention.I bravely pull my backpack on “Let’s go”.

Every step is agony.

We finally get to the campsite just as it’s starting to get dark. I take the backpack off and my legs instantly turn to jelly.

It’s the strangest sensation; I’m walking but I have absolutely no control over my legs.

I do a very convincing impression of a thunderbird before I fall over. I land on something big and lumpy. It starts screaming. I freak out and scream back.

Then a man’s head appears through the tent flap. He isn’t happy about me falling on their tent and scaring the shit out of his wife. I’m not too chuffed about it either to be honest.

I watch Jake as he sets up our tent. And I decide that I must really love him to put myself through this.

But can our relationship survive the next seven days?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This is the first time I’ve been caught out like this. And it happened because I was too bloody busy ‘living in the moment’ to remember to set the alarm.

I jump out of bed. And stumble around looking for my clothes. Then I have a (very vivid) flashback to being naked with Jake in the living room. This distracts me momentarily.

Then the doorbell rings again. How can it be time for Mia to come home already? I feel like I only just fell asleep; which is entirely feasible given that we were up for most of the night.

I run to the living room and quickly get dressed. Then I run back to the bedroom and throw Jakes’ clothes at him. I really have to stop running. My body aches from over exertion.

I shake him awake “Get dressed. Do not make a sound. And do not leave this room”. He looks (understandably) confused in his half-asleep stupor.

I open the door. Mia throws herself at me “Happy Birthday Mummy!” She doesn’t notice my dishevelled appearance. But Mark does. My crazy hair and flushed cheeks must scream “I’ve been having sex all night!”

Mia dances around me singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the top of her voice. I assume Mark wants to discuss something; he normally stays in the car. I wait for him to speak. But all he says is “Your top is inside out”.

Then he kisses Mia goodbye and walks off. I can’t see his car anywhere. He disappears around the corner. There is something odd about his behaviour but I don’t have time to analyse it. I have to get Jake out of the house without Mia seeing him.

I lead her into the living room. And close the door “Wow, it looks like it snowed in here. What happened?” I tell her that I set the bean bag on fire. She doesn’t seem at all surprised.

I put the television on. And turn up the volume; just in case she can hear my heart thumping against my chest. I am a nervous wreck.

Mia hasn’t met anyone I’ve dated; I didn’t want her to form an attachment to someone unless I was sure there was a future in it. She must not see Jake. I give her the television remote. Then tell her that I’m going to prepare a surprise in the kitchen. And she must stay in the living room until I come to get her.

I go into the bedroom. Jake is dressed and sitting on the bed. I apologise. Then explain that I don’t want Mia to meet him. He looks a little put out. So I add “not yet anyway”. I tell him to count to three after I have left. Then leave very quietly.

I go back into the living room “Is the surprise ready?” Bollocks. I had said the first thing that came into my head. “Not yet”. Then I suggest we empty out the rest of the polystyrene balls. And roll around in the ‘snow’. This occupies her long enough for Jake to leave.

I start to relax. Then she throws me off balance by asking why it took me so long to answer the door. My brain is frazzled. I can’t think. “Were you having a big poo?” I readily agree.

Then I spot Jake’s boxers under the sofa. Damn. Not only did I throw him out. I threw him out underwear-less. Perhaps I should just give up on dating altogether. At least until my mother dies and Mia grows up; by which point I’ll probably be rocking incessantly in a chair with a cat on my head mumbling incoherently about the opportunities I missed.

My train of thought is interrupted by the sight of Mia scratching her head. My head has also been feeling a little itchy but I put it down to having the heating on a lot more than usual. Now I’m not so sure. I check her hair.

She has head lice. And so have I.

We rush to the supermarket to buy treatment. Mr Jobsworth recognises me immediately. And starts following us. I’m tempted to open another can of red bull but I want to get these little bloodsucking parasites out of our hair as soon as possible.

We stop at the pharmacy section. He is right behind us. I whisper “Scratch your head” to Mia. And we both start (ferociously) scratching our heads. Then I pick up two bottles of head lice treatment. And Mr Jobsworth practically runs off.

We get home. And sit in the bath with the treatment on our hair waiting for it to work. Then it dawns on me that I may have given Jake head lice.

Today just gets better and better.

I’ve never liked my birthday. It’s always such an anti-climax. I’m not quite sure what I expect; a fireworks display maybe or a ten piece orchestra outside my door. Needless to say, I am always left disappointed.

Admittedly hitting my mid-thirties complete with head lice is a new low altogether.

Then my phone beeps with a message. It’s from Jake 'look on your doorstep - happy birthday xx'.

I open the door to find a bunch of lilies and a gift box full of lychees. I told him last night that they were my favourite fruit. That is so sweet of him. I feel all warm and fuzzy. Then I cringe; how the hell am I going to tell him about the head lice?

The phone rings. I let it go to answer phone. My parents sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in tuneless unison. They do that every year. And it never fails to make me smile. Then my mother says “There is a present in the bag for you from Nene”. Nene? What is she talking about? My Nene (grandmother) died fifteen years ago.

I get the bag out of its hiding place. And rummage around until I find a gift-wrapped box. It’s my grandmother’s necklace; thirty gold sovereigns (with Arabic writing) threaded on to a piece of thick string.

It’s been in the family for generations. And it’s the closest thing we have to a family heirloom. I read the note 'Nene asked me to give you this when I thought you would appreciate its value'.

I’m touched. And a little surprised that she chose me (over my five siblings) to pass it on to.

We clashed a lot; particularly over religion. My grandmother used to sleep with the Koran above her bed. She would take it down every morning and read it again. I asked her why she believed in god when her life had been so shit.

She answered with “If I didn’t have my faith then what would I have?” She believed that this life was a test; that she was being made to suffer in this life so that she could be rewarded in the next. I told her that was crap. There is only one life and this is it. She asked god to forgive me and prayed for my soul.

We were worlds apart but I loved that old lady so much. I wish I could tell her that I’m sorry for mocking her faith. And that the grown up Kitty actually admires her for it. That would have made her happy. Although I would have to add that I still believed all organised forms of religion to be oppressive and had merely shifted from atheist to agnostic.

At that point she would have leaned down for her slipper. And I would have headed for the door. I didn’t always get there in time. My grandmother was the fastest slipper thrower in the west. I still miss her. She had lived with us all my life. That’s one of the things I love about my culture. We look after our old folk.

And we all played a part in looking after my grandmother when she was dying of cancer. It’s incredible how you can live in the same house as someone for years but actually know so little about who they are beyond their designated roles within the family.

I knew she was my grandmother. I knew she loved wrestling (I still have tapes of her swearing when ‘Giant Haystacks’ was stage fighting her favourite ‘Big Daddy’). I knew her husband was a bastard. I knew she loved Laurel and Hardy. And I knew she made a mean olive and tomato salad. But I found out a lot more about her that last weekend we spent together.

She was married at twelve and horribly abused by her husband and his dominant mother for twenty one years until they died within a couple of months of each other. Her first child died at eighteen months. Then she had my mother. And finally, (what every Cypriot man wanted) a son.

It’s the first time I have heard her talk about her son. All I knew about him was that he was mentally and physically disabled. He died in his twenties. I had asked my mother to elaborate once but she just shook her head, pursed her lips and told me never to mention him again.

I gently probe my grandmother. Her face crumbles and her pain is clearly still incredibly raw “I did a terrible thing”. I hold her hand and wait for her to tell me more. He was perfectly normal up until the age of three. He was sitting in the garden when he had some sort of fit, his little arms and legs thrashing wildly. Then he lost consciousness. She tried to rouse him by shaking his little body.

He finally came to but was left paralysed down one side of his body and suffered brain damage. Her husband and mother-in-law told her that she had done that to him when she was shaking him. I tell her that’s not possible. Surely the doctors told her that?

But this happened in Cyprus in 1934. He was never taken to a doctor. And she was made to live with that guilt for the rest of her life. Nothing I say can convince her otherwise. She says that is why she has been made to suffer. That is why she was left paralysed down one side of her body by a stroke. That is why she is dying of cancer.

I finally understand her need to have her faith.

We sit in silence with tears running down our faces. I bury my head in her neck, breathing in her smell as she strokes my hair (I used to sit at her feet for hours when I was little while she did that).

She tilts my head up and looks into my eyes, “You have fire in your belly Kitty. I had that once too. Don’t ever let anybody put that fire out”.

I clutch the necklace tightly as Mia wipes my tears away “No crying on your birthday”.

Then she suggests we go bowling.

On the drive there she says “Daddy’s new car has a TV thing in it. Don’t tell him I told you though ok? He said I wasn’t allowed to tell you about it.”

New car? Why is he buying a new car when he can’t afford the mortgage? And why is he asking Mia not to tell me? Then I remember his odd behaviour earlier. Normally he waits in the car outside the house. He must have parked around the corner because he didn’t want me to see it.

I have an awful sick feeling in the pit of my stomach; have I been taken for a complete fool?

The ‘go safely’ part (of the water throwing) works. And I make it home with their money. I find a safe place to hide the bag. Then I do a little celebratory dance around the living room; my parents are out of my hair for two whole weeks!

I decide to throw caution to the wind. And invite Jake over for dinner. Tonight. There’s no stopping me now. Spontaneity is a rare luxury for me. And I’m going to make the most of it. Then I realise that I have nothing to cook.

I rush around the supermarket like a demon; opening a can of red bull for extra fuel as I go. Then I notice that there is a 'buy one get one free' offer on a bumper pack of condoms. That’s forty eight condoms in total. I pick one up. And check the expiry date.

I am about to drop it into the trolley when I hear a heavily accented voice behind me “You must not do that”. I drop it in, take a sip of my drink and pick up another one. Then I hear that voice again “You must not do that”. I turn around.

Fuck.Is that the voice of my conscience? No. It’s the voice of the security guard. I hold up the box of condoms and say “Excuse me?” He points to the can of red bull “You should not drink something before you pay for it” I laugh “Oh I see. Don’t worry; I’m going to pay for it”.

I walk away. But he follows me. I ignore him. And continue to sip from the can. He tells me to stop. People are starting to stare. I notice a member of the Mummy Mafia from Mia’s school amongst them. I follow her eyes down to my trolley. And the two bumper packs of condoms perched on top. That should give them plenty to talk about on Monday morning.

He asks me to give him the can. I refuse. And explain that it is only theft if I leave the store without paying for it. He can’t argue with that. But he continues to follow me. I’m feeling a little mischievous; I decide to have some fun with Mr Jobsworth.

I walk forward a couple of steps. Stop abruptly. Then take a couple of steps backwards. I do this several times. He stumbles a little but manages to stay with me. Then I stop by the panty liners and pick up two packs “What do you think? Which ones should I get? Are the own brand ones any good?” He looks suitably embarrassed.

I suddenly realise that I don’t have time to play games. I have a dinner to cook! I put the panty liners down. And head to the checkout. He follows me. And doesn’t move until every item has been scanned and paid for.

I hold up the can of red bull and tell him that it "gives you wings". Then I demonstrate by breaking out into a run until I pick up enough speed to jump up on to the trolley. I wave to him as I go whizzing out of the supermarket (narrowly avoiding a head on collision with an oncoming trolley). I think I may be a little hyper.

I get home, prepare the food and put it in the oven. Then I have thirty minutes to get ready. Shower or make up? I don’t have time for both. I opt for a shower. I can get away with minimal make up if I get the lighting right.

He turns up looking absolutely edible. Our hands touch as he hands me a bottle of wine. And I actually get butterflies in my tummy.

I lead him into the living room which is lit entirely by candles. I may have gone a little overboard. It looks a bit like a church. I just hope he isn’t carrying any Catholic guilt; that could really screw things up.

I tell Jake that we are eating furunda makarina. He says that sounds very exotic. Then laughs as I admit that the literal translation is “pasta in the oven”. He follows me into the kitchen. I open the drawer to get a corkscrew. He is standing so close that I can feel his warm breath on my neck. I am giddy again.

I can’t find it. I start emptying out the drawer. Then realise that I have pulled out the condoms I bought earlier. Maybe he didn’t see them. I steal a glance. He is looking directly at them. “They were on offer. Buy one get one free. And they don’t expire until 2013 so we have plenty of time”. Shut up Kitty!

He looks a little flushed. I hand him the corkscrew. And two glasses. I think we could both do with a drink.

We sit down to eat. I raise my glass and make a toast to “living in the moment”. I have decided not to think too much. And just follow my instincts. I am happy that I decided to see Jake again.

There is something wonderfully liberating about entering into a relationship that you know doesn’t have a chance in hell of lasting. You don’t have to reveal yourself to him gradually; keeping the less appetising parts of your personality back until he has fallen in love with you.

And the pressure to ‘make it work’ just isn’t there. I am free to act exactly as I want because (for the first time) I have absolutely nothing to lose.

He asks me about my writing. I tell him that I am working on a novel. Obviously I don’t mention the blog. We discuss literature at length. Then I find myself telling him about all the poetry that I used to write years ago. And how I keep it all in a box under my bed. He asks me if I can read some to him. I can’t remember the last time I looked at any of it, let alone read it to someone. But I surprise myself by saying yes.

He is sat on the sofa. The sexual chemistry between us is so potent that it is almost tangible. I don’t trust myself to sit next to him. So I pull the beanbag away from the sofa a little. And lean against it as I open the box. I close my eyes, rummage around and pull out a poem randomly.

It’s called “Mecca”. I read it to him;

I can never escape
I hear it at night
Whispering urgently in the darkness
Covering my naked soul in caresses

My head screams blindly
I dare not open my face
Memories tease me with time;
I’ll have to leave a life behind

Can a bird with stained wings fly?
Her sad ashamed eyes reflect in the moon
He hid his tears behind the mirror
I looked to the sky for silence.

Shadows on the wall are dying for me
My pillow becomes a stone
The room my court of injustice
Which way is Mecca?
I never knew.

I am more than a little embarrassed by the amateur nature of my writing (and the cringey teenage angst). Jake says “That’s so.....” I interject with “terrible!” I check the date. I was sixteen. And a goth. That figures; it was written during my ‘dark’ period.

Actually that was one poem that I decided to share with my parents. I think I must have been stoned at the time. But it was completely lost on them “Of course you know which way Mecca is! We’ve told you enough times!”

I go through the box looking for something a little more upbeat. Then I see little white balls cascading past me. I turn to see where they are coming from. I have pushed the beanbag against one of the candles. And set it (a little bit) on fire. Jake leaps into action and puts it out.

I open the windows to let out the smoke. Then thank him. He acted fast so the only damage done is a large hole in the beanbag. The floor is covered in little white polystyrene balls. We blow out the rest of the candles. And put the light on. The romantic ambience is ruined somewhat.

I decide it’s time for coffee and dessert.

I carry the tray into the living room. And find Jake sat on the floor reading more of my poetry. He looks engrossed.

I put the tray down next to him. He looks up. Our eyes lock “I have never met anyone like you Kitty” I have butterflies in my tummy again. And I want to rip his clothes off.

I try to lighten the mood by asking him if I should be offended or flattered by that. He looks at me in a way that makes me feel incredibly desirable.

Then he pulls me down on top of him. And we kiss. Our bodies fit together perfectly. Everything feels surreal; dreamlike in its intensity. I think I could really get used to this ‘living in the moment’ thing...

Nothing else exists. It is just the two of us. And I am totally caught up in the moment. Then I hear “Oi, are you getting in or not? I can’t sit here all fucking night waiting for you to finish eating each other’s faces”.

That certainly kills the romance.

I turn to get in. But Jake stops me and tells him to go. He kisses me again. He obviously wants to whisk me off to bed. I tell him that I would love to get naked with him. But it's too soon. He agrees.

I’m confused “So why did you send the taxi away?” He says that the driver was aggressive. And he didn’t want me getting into his taxi.

I should be offended; he is implying that I can’t look after myself. But I find it really sweet that he cares. I want him to look after me. Oh dear. What is wrong with me?

He hails another taxi. And we part reluctantly. I smile to myself as I sink back into the seat.

Then I start playing a silly numbers game; when I was graduating from university, he was still at primary school. And when I was leaving primary school...... he hadn’t even been born.

This is so unfair. Why can’t he be older? I stamp my feet, clench my fists and actually growl with frustration. I become very much like a petulant child when inebriated.

The taxi driver can’t help but notice my little tantrum “You alright love?” I respond with “No, actually I’m not. I have just had a wonderful evening with a lovely man.” Then I put my head in my hands. And growl a little more.

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad thing love!” I explain that he is thirteen years younger than me. And I don’t want to look like a ridiculous older woman having a midlife crisis.

He laughs “You looked around the same age to me love” Ordinarily his consistent use of ‘love’ would grate on me. But he is being complimentary so I let him continue.

He speaks in clichés all the way home “age is nothing but a number”- “you’re only as old as you feel”. In short, he says everything I want to hear. Clearly this man has great wisdom and insight. I will see Jake again. I thank him.

I am about to get out when he says “You’re welcome love. Now if you don’t mind me asking, who are you going to be voting for in the next general election?” I really don’t want to get into a political debate so I tell him that I'll decide closer to the time.

Then he completely throws me by saying that he thinks UKIP have lost it since Farage resigned so he will be voting for the BNP. And that I should vote for them too. He is black. The BNP are neo-Nazis. Clearly he is joking. I laugh “You almost had me there!”

He assures me that he is serious. Apparently immigration is getting out of hand and the BNP are the only ones willing to tackle it.

I explain, as gently as I can, that if the BNP were ever to get into power, he would be amongst the first people to be deported. I suggest he reads their manifesto very carefully.

But his mind is made up. And his high level of stupidity obviously negates all the relationship advice he gave me.

I send Jake a text, home safely – thank you for a lovely evening. Then he calls. And tells me he would love to see me again. I hesitate. He asks if his age is an issue. I admit that the age difference concerns me.

We talk effortlessly for one hour and twenty three minutes. It would have been longer but my stomach started cramping quite badly. And I had to leg it to the bathroom. I don’t think those prawn shells agreed with me.

I am woken up by the incessant ringing of the telephone. It’s my mother. She wants to know why I am not there yet.

I arrive to find her baking for an army. They are flying to Cyprus tonight. And it is custom that family and friends come to see you off when you are going away. Custom also dictates that you feed them. This has always struck me as being both inconvenient and inconsiderate.

My mother sits me down with a glass of water. She smiles sadly whilst brushing my hair out of my eyes. Then she cups my face in her hands. And breaks the news to me gently, "Kitty, I'm afraid there hasn't been any interest in you from the wedding". I almost snort with laughter.

Then realise that she is genuinely concerned for me. I manage to keep a straight face as she tells me that I mustn’t give up hope. She kisses me on the head. And almost chokes me as she forces her freshly baked olive bread into my mouth.

Then she says “We will be making enquiries in Cyprus so all is not lost yet. You never know, we may even come back with a surprise for you!”

That 'surprise' is likely to be the village idiot.

It’s time to stop playing along. I tell her that I have more to offer than a British passport. And that marrying an inbred villager is the last resort for hopeless cases. She agrees. Then asks me to give it serious consideration.

“I know you were born here, but you are a Turkish Cypriot. It is not nice that you are so dismissive of our people”. I tell her that I think Cyprus is a beautiful island. But I find the people primitive and insular.

Apparently a lot has changed since my last visit. That wouldn’t be too difficult; I’ve haven’t been back for twelve years. She says I should be ashamed of myself.

I blame the long absence on my fear of flying (particularly take off and landing). And as the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus doesn’t ‘officially’ exist, you cannot fly there directly. Therefore one round trip involves four take offs and four landings.

She points out that it has been possible to fly directly to the South and cross the border into the North since 2003. I can’t argue with that. I munch silently on the bread while I think of a diversion.

Then I remember that my penultimate trip to the motherland (when I was fourteen) had resulted in my parents banishing me from the island. I triumphantly remind my mother of that minor detail.

Her attention is successfully diverted. And she launches into a full blown rant “Oh the shame of it. You went and had all your beautiful hair shaved off and dyed green the day before we went. You looked like a punk. Everyone was staring at you. Then you decided to walk through the village naked....” Her face is red. This could go on for some time. I tune out.

I should mention that I didn't actually walk through the village naked. I was wearing a tiny string bikini that I had somehow managed to squeeze my prematurely developed body into.

Admittedly it was a step too far when I decided to go into the ‘men only’ cafe where my father was playing backgammon. He was absolutely furious. I tried to argue that it was over 40 degrees and I was merely trying to keep cool. He threw his cold water in my face. Then made me wear his shirt and marched me back to the house.

But at least it secured me a place in heaven; I have never had so many old ladies simultaneously praying for my soul to be saved.

It was another ten years before they allowed me to go to back to Cyprus with them.

I was briefed thoroughly before we went. Behave in a ladylike manner. No skirts/dresses above the knee. Do not call them thieves when they take your clothes. And only bring clothes you are willing to lose; it is perfectly acceptable for people to go through your suitcase and simply help themselves to whatever takes their fancy (including your underwear).

I was welcomed back as ‘The Lawyer’ and spent an exhausting week successfully redeeming myself.

I was relieved when it was time to go home. My mother offered to help me pack. She took out the few items of clothing I had left “Do you really need these?”

Then she packed my now empty suitcase full of hellim (halloumi). I pointed out that hellim is widely available in London.

But she insisted that they do not taste as good as the ones she has had freshly made in Cyprus. I stared at the rows and rows of white blocks in clear plastic bags. I told her that it looked very suspicious. Her response was to cover them with a beach towel.

Apparently she didn’t have room in her own suitcase because she was bringing back the figs. And the oranges.

I spent the entire flight imagining the scene at Heathrow customs as they opened my suitcase “And what is this madam?” I could almost hear the snap of the rubber gloves being pulled on as I responded with “Cheese”.

I wasn’t stopped. But I still have nightmares about being strip searched.

The doorbell rings. The goodbye committee (and their buckets) start arriving in force. And I am duty bound to stay there all day.

My mother takes me to one side just before they leave. And hands over a holdall to “keep safe” until their return. I open it. It’s filled with bundles of cash (they don’t trust banks).

I tell her I don’t want the responsibility. And suggest that she gives it to one of my five siblings. But she insists I take it because “the others have people coming in and out of their houses all the time – nobody comes to your house. It’ll be safer with you”.

The buckets are filled with water. Then we go outside to wave them off. As the car pulls away, the buckets of water are thrown after it. It is supposed to signify ‘go safely, come back safely’.

I ask them to refill the buckets and do the same for me as I drive off with my parents’ life savings.

I have to make myself look as (naturally) attractive as possible. It takes me almost two hours to get ready; sadly that is how long it takes to work the ‘natural’ look now that I am in my thirties. Then the doorbell rings.

I grab my bag and open the door. My mother pushes past me “Why is there a ‘for sale’ sign outside the house?” I tell her I’m on my way out. And remind her (again) that she really should call before coming over. She shakes her head at me “You are so English”.

I don’t want to miss my train. So I usher her out and close the door behind us. She is indignant “I can’t believe you’re throwing me out”. Then she turns to my father “Say something to your daughter”. He infuriates her further by giving me a kiss and saying “Come over tomorrow sweetheart, we need to talk to you”.

I don’t like the sound of that. But I don’t have time to ask him to elaborate.

I start walking to the station as quickly as my heels will allow. Then a middle aged woman taps me on the shoulder and points to a car “I think he’s trying to get your attention”. It’s one of the guys from the gym. I wave back at him as the traffic starts moving.

I turn and say thanks to the woman. I explain that I never look around when I hear car horns. She nods sympathetically. Then says “I know what you mean, it would be really embarrassing to turn around and find that they are beeping at a young girl behind you wouldn’t it?”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. Do I look middle aged? That’s not what I meant at all. I just meant that it happens fairly regularly. And that I don’t want to encourage the horn beepers by acknowledging them. But now that I think about it; it doesn’t actually happen that regularly anymore.

Shit. Am I losing my mojo?

I get to the restaurant to find that Jake is already there. He stands up to greet me with a kiss on the cheek. And a brief hug that makes my legs a little weak. He smells lovely.

I must not babble incessantly at him again. So I decide to pause for thought before I speak. But this just makes my reactions seem strangely delayed.

I have gone from one extreme to another. Why is it so bloody difficult to find any sort of equilibrium? Isn’t it bad enough that random middle aged women are prematurely claiming me as one of their own? And this light is too bright. What if Jake notices that I am losing my mojo?

I’m starting to (quietly) freak out. I must say very little until I calm down. I ask Jake about himself. And just listen. Something about him feels very familiar. But I don’t know why.

I can’t take my eyes off him. He is devastatingly handsome. I gaze at him as I raise the fork to my mouth. And crunch on a large prawn that is still in its shell. Damn. Jake looks a little surprised. I try to style it out “I like the shell. It’s a good source of fibre” Then I force myself to casually eat the rest of them the same way.

I start to feel relaxed; probably because I drink a little too much wine in an attempt to wash the shells down.

Jake is wonderfully engaging. And he seems oblivious to how utterly delicious he is. I can’t help thinking that there has to be a catch. Nobody is that perfect right? We linger over dessert. I don’t want the evening to end. And neither does Jake.

He asks me if I play pool. I laugh. And explain that my pool playing skills are a legacy of my misspent youth. I was seventeen when I left home and moved into a squat in Lambeth with my best friend.

We spent our days smoking pot. And our evenings playing pool in the local bar; hustling free drinks. He smiles as he says “You are a very interesting lady, Kitty Moore”. Then he challenges me to a game at a nearby pool hall.

He holds the door open for me. Then he takes my hand in his. And it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

We sit at the bar facing each other. Then I become aware that our knees are touching. And I feel giddy. I can only remember one other time when I felt like this;

I was fifteen and had a crush on my English teacher. I was reading a lot of Jackie Collins at the time so my attempts at seduction were hardly subtle. I found out when his (27th) birthday was.

Then I checked his timetable. And excused myself from my Geography lesson. I went into the toilets, took off my bra and wrote ‘Happy Birthday’ across my chest in red lipstick. Then I headed up to the music rooms (I knew he played the piano during free periods).

I knocked on the door, walked right up to him and lifted up my sweater. The poor man had no idea where to look. He told me to put them away, bundled me out of the room and locked the door behind me.

He was the consummate professional. Although that didn’t stop me trying (unsuccessfully) to seduce him until I left. I was totally smitten with him. My heart would literally miss a beat whenever he stood near me. He was so handsome and accomplished. And he was the first real gentleman I had ever met.

He gave me a copy of Sylvia Plath’s ‘Ariel’ as a parting gift. He put a card in it that said "You may find strains that ring true in this poetry. Keep writing and don’t commit suicide (actual or metaphorical) as Sylvia Plath did”. I’ve never forgotten him.

Then I realise why Jake seems so familiar. He reminds me of my teacher. A lot. I watch him set the balls up. And I feel like a teenager again.

He lets me break. I seven ball him. We play again. I get a little cocky and attempt a trick shot. I miscalculate. The ball flies off the table. And straight into the man bits of an unfortunate gentleman at the next table. I stifle a giggle and offer him a drink by way of apology. Jake comes to the bar with me.

I am still trying not to laugh. Then Jake says “When Joanna said you were a ball breaker, I didn’t think she meant it literally!” I burst out laughing. Then I suddenly stop “She really said that?” I’m starting to dislike her “Yes, but I don’t think she meant it. She was just trying to put me off you”.

I have had too much wine to censor myself “Ha! I knew it. She fancies you doesn’t she?” He laughs and shakes his head. But I warm to my theme. “That’s why it took two weeks for her to call me. Oh my god – is she your ex? Did you actually go out with her? I hope you used protection, she really puts it about...” Jake interrupts me with “She’s my sister”. Oh dear.

I feel bad (for a nanosecond). Then I remember what she said “So why was she trying to put you off me?” Apparently she thinks he is too young for me. I laugh “That’s silly. You’re only a couple of years younger than me...... aren’t you?” He isn’t. He is twenty three. I am twelve years older than him. I am completely floored. He has the manner and maturity of somebody much older.

I decide it’s time to leave. He hails a taxi for me and asks me to let him know that I got home safely. Then he kisses me. And I melt into his arms.

But how the hell can I have a relationship with a twenty three year old?

I have to make myself look as unattractive as possible.

I tie my hair back. Leave my face make-up free. Then pull on a dress that I last wore when I was six months pregnant. I put my glasses on. And I’m ready.

Mia is an absolute vision in a floaty pink dress and matching shoes; she is safe, they are not looking for a husband for her. Yet.

We’re going to my cousin’s wedding (under duress). She forced me into it by making Mia a bridesmaid. The last Turkish wedding I went to was mine. And that didn’t turn out too well.

Mark and I had wanted a small wedding. And my father had agreed “Yes, a small wedding....just four hundred people”.

It was the first mixed marriage in our community. And it showed.

We had tried to brief the small number of English guests on etiquette. But it was all forgotten after a few drinks. One man approached a Turkish girl and asked for her number. He was silently lifted off his feet by her father and escorted back to the English corner of the hall. There were no further requests for numbers after that.

We tried to incorporate English tradition as much as we could. This (to the bemusement of the Turks) included speeches and a toast. Mark’s best man wimped out so my brother stepped in to deliver an impromptu speech. He started by saying “I will speak in English for the benefit of the ethnic minority here tonight”. That provided a rare moment where the guests were united (in laughter).

My brother is very aware of the stereotypes attributed to Turks. And enjoys playing on them; he continued with “Normally we run kebab shops or cafes or dry cleaners but really, my sister had no choice but to become a lawyer because we needed someone to look after the family interests and by family I mean” he paused and looked slowly around the room. Then smiled wickedly as he said, “I mean...the Turkish Mafia”. The Turks clapped, whistled and hollered. The English guests were (visibly) very nervous.

Mark whispered “They really are mafia, aren’t they?” I followed his eyes across to my father. People were lining up to kiss his hand (a sign of respect for your elders). Then I realised; The Godfather. It looked like they were kissing his ring. I suppressed a giggle. But didn’t enlighten Mark until later. Much later. Years later in fact.

My brother concluded his speech with the words “Mark, thank you for making my little sister very happy, but if you ever make her unhappy....” He made a gun gesture with his hand and put it to Mark’s temple “Bang!” The hall virtually erupted with (over four hundred) Turks clapping and cheering.

At least this is a straightforward Turkish wedding without any poor English people to torment.

My parents arrive to pick us up. My mother takes one look at me and says “Hurry up and get ready”. I tell her that I am ready. She purses her lips and takes me by the arm. I am led into my bedroom. She starts going through the wardrobe “Most of these people haven’t seen you since your wedding. The least you can do is look pretty”.

She pulls out a clingy Karen Millen dress.

My immaculately dressed father walks in (he wears a shirt and tie just to go to the supermarket). “Please wear something nice. You look pregnant in that”. I find it much more difficult to say no to him. So I put the dress on. My mother puts her hand down my bra and hoists my breasts up so that they are practically spilling out “There. That’s better”

I stuff a wad of dollars (money is a big theme) into my handbag and we leave.

It takes a while to get to our table. We are stopped every few feet by people paying their respects to my father. He comes from a long line of village leaders. And he may no longer be in Cyprus but neither is the village; it is now in North London.

I always forget that we are supposed to be Muslims. And so does everybody else if the amount of alcohol being consumed is anything to go by. Not to mention the skimpy clothes. They are clearly not aware of the golden rule; breasts out, legs away or legs out, breasts away. You can’t get both out without looking like a tart. I would never let Mia dress like that. Shit. I’m starting to sound like my mother.

And the live band is too loud. I'm definitely getting old. Then I get cornered by a lecherous (distant) relative. Thankfully my phone starts to vibrate. I excuse myself and walk outside. It’s Joanna. She is calling to ask if it is ok to give Jake my number. Apparently he has been asking her for it since New Year’s Eve. And it took her two weeks to call me? I thought I had scared him off with my verbal diarrhoea.

I walk back in just as they start calling out names for the testih dance. I hear my name. I turn around and start walking back out. But it’s too late. I am grabbed by my (pimp) mother. She drags me to the side of the dance floor.

The testih dance is open only to single girls available for marriage. Each girl takes it in turn to dance like Shakira whilst holding a lavishly decorated clay pot.

I tell my mother that I can’t possibly dance with the testih because (traditionally) you have to be a virgin to take part. She holds me firmly in place and hisses in my ear “Pah! You think any of them are virgins? There are no virgins left!”

I have no choice. I throw dollars at the other girls while they dance. Then it’s my turn. I am the last one which means I have to smash the pot.

I decide to cut the dancing short and just smash it. I am surrounded by children waiting to scramble for the money and sweets inside the pot. I keep shouting at them to move back; flying bits of broken clay can be lethal.

But they won’t move. So I throw it down as close to me as possible. It smashes. A sharp piece of clay bounces off the floor. And into my leg. It starts to bleed. I step carefully over the children and hobble to the bathroom.

Then my phone vibrates again. And I’m caught off guard. It's Jake. I wasn't expecting him to call so soon. It’s too late to hang up.

He asks me how I am “Well-I’ve-just-done-the-dance-of-the-virgins-not-that-I’m-a-virgin-obviously-but-I’m-not-a-slapper-either-I-was-married-for-a-long-time-so-I-haven’t-slept-with-lots-of-men-or-anything-anyway-I-smashed-the-testih-and-I-didn’t-want-to-hurt-the-kids-so-I-ended-up-cutting-my-leg-and-now-I’m-in-the-bathroom-cleaning-my-leg-that-is-not-on-the-toilet-I-wouldn’t-answer-the-phone-on-the-toilet-that-would-be-rude”. I manage to stop talking. But I fear the damage is already done. I sound unhinged.

There is a brief pause before he laughs. Then asks me out. And I say yes.

I hobble back to my seat grinning inanely with a piece of toilet paper stuck over the bloody gash on my leg. And suddenly this wedding seems fabulous!

Being a mother leaves you with an open wound forever. I read that somewhere once (before I became a mother). And I remember thinking ‘how melodramatic’. I didn’t give it another thought. Then I had Mia.

The memory of that traumatic first week of her life is still so painfully vivid. Mia was twelve hours old when we brought her home;

I tear myself away from her to get in the bath. Then Mark comes running up the stairs holding Mia. She is choking. I leap out of the bath. And we rush to the hospital. I’m holding her and praying all the way there. She is turning blue. I ask for proof that there is a God. Save Mia and I’ll believe in you I say.

Then she throws up a thick gooey substance. And starts to breathe normally again. I realise that I am writing this without emotion. But only because I was numb at the time. It’s my natural default to shut down when I can’t handle the level of emotion threatening to flood through me.

They think she still has birthing fluid in her lungs but they are not sure. And “an infection in a baby this young could be fatal”.

Mia is placed in a cot with an alarm that will go off if she stops breathing. The consultant arrives and tells us (very matter- of-factly) that “there are two ways of telling if there is something wrong with a baby this young; when they stop feeding or when they stop breathing”.

I am still numb. They take Mia away for blood tests. I send Mark with her. I don’t want to see them hurting my baby. I hear her crying almost immediately. And I finally break down.

The emotional floodgates are ripped wide open. I am sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. My baby is hurting. And I can’t make it stop. The pain I feel is unbearable. Totally unlike any kind of pain I have ever known. I feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. And my insides are being twisted so tightly that I can hardly breathe. I love her so much.

And that love makes me feel so vulnerable. There was nothing that could have happened to me before that would have broken me. I had made myself so tough. But I cannot survive losing her.

I look around for a window. We’re on the tenth floor. If Mia dies, I’m going to throw myself out of it. I can’t live without my baby. I ask forgiveness for all the wrongs that I have done. Do anything to me but not this. Not my baby. Don’t make her suffer for my sins. Please.

I don’t sleep so I can constantly check that Mia is breathing. I don’t trust the alarm. What if it doesn’t work?

Then something unimaginably horrible happens. I hear this horrific wailing. It sounds like a wounded animal. A child has just died. And it is his mother that I can hear. I have never heard such raw pain in my entire life. My heart breaks. Children are not supposed to die.

I have a real fear of flying. So whenever I get on an airplane, the first thing I do is look around to confirm that there are children on the flight. Then I feel safe because I assume that nothing bad can happen with so many innocents on board. I can never make that assumption again.

One week later and we are back at home. All of the tests prove negative. It was the birthing fluid. Apparently they shouldn’t have discharged us for three days after the birth to monitor Mia.

I refuse to put Mia in her cot. And she sleeps on my chest so I can monitor her breathing. Everyone makes mistakes. Even doctors. I don’t trust them.

I learn how to resuscitate a baby. And obsessively practise on a doll; over and over again. Mark says he can’t wait until I can relax again. I don’t think I ever will. How can I when I have responsibility for another’s life?

I have gradually relaxed (a little) since then. But I still feel that sense of responsibility very keenly. And it’s been making me toss and turn all night. My mind is overflowing with irrational fears; what if Jade does something to hurt Mia? What if she pushes her down the stairs? Or abuses her emotionally? It’s frustrating because (in this instance) I can’t protect her until after she has been hurt in some way.

The alarm goes off. I haven’t slept at all.

I look outside, the snow has settled. Everything looks beautifully pure and sweet; as though it has been covered in icing sugar.

Mia’s school is closed. It is also closed the next day. And the day after that. Then it's the weekend.

We have been cooped up in the house for days. I can’t move without bumping into her. And my patience is starting to wear thin. I tell her to stop following me around. She scowls at me. Then walks off.

I check the school website on Monday morning. It’s open. I wake Mia up. And get her ready in record time. I think we both need a little time apart. But I can’t find my glasses or my keys. Mia wanders off. Then re-appears and holds them both out to me.

As I reach out to take them, she puts her hand on her hip and says "See mummy, this is exactly why you shouldn’t tell me off for following you around, because if I didn’t, I’d never know where you put things would I?”

She has a totally triumphant look on her face. And I can’t fault her logic. The fact is, she got me. I am always losing things. And she is always finding them. So I tell her that she is right, apologise, and promise that I will never tell her off for that again.

Naturally she starts following me around the moment she gets home from school. It’s driving me mad but I can’t break a promise. So I coax her outside instead.

We go to the park. And build yet another snowman. Then we play our favourite game. We choose something around us, a bench, a statue, anything, then make up a story about it.

She is a complete natural. And I love listening to her. All her stories have a happy ending. Her view of the world hasn’t been tainted yet. I want her to hold on to that innocence for as long as possible; the blind faith that good will always prevail over bad.

She tells me a story about the tree. A little boy sits under it every day and talks to it. He tells the tree about the horrible boys at school that bully him. The little boy doesn’t know it but the tree can hear him because it’s alive. Then one day he is sitting under the tree when the bad boys come along and start being horrible to him. He gets scared and runs to the bark of the tree and clings to it.

The bad boys run after him. But before they can get to him, the branches of the tree come down and grab them. The tree wraps its branches around the bad boys and picks them up high into the air. It throws them around until they are crying and begging the little boy to make it stop. He says "Only if you promise never to be bad again". They promise and the tree puts them down. The bad boys run off and never bully him again. And he lives happily ever after.

I tell her I love it. Then I ask her if she is being bullied at school. She sighs “No mummy, I was just using my imagination. I’d tell you if I was being bullied wouldn’t I? I tell you everything”.

I say “I just worry about you, that’s all”. Then she mutters (under her breath) “I know. You’ve been worrying about me since the day I was born”.

I feel terrible that she has such a keen awareness of my neurosis; she is barely six years old. But I can’t dwell on it for too long as she shouts “Race you to the swings” and sprints off.

We swing side by side, giggling together as we go higher and higher. I am purely happy. I turn to look at her beautiful little face as she says “Don’t worry so much mummy, ok?” I nod; overwhelmed by emotion.

But I know that I will never stop worrying because being a mother leaves you with an open wound forever.

I manage to last an impressive forty two minutes.

Then I retrieve the letter and the gift wrapped box from the bin.

I understand that you are angry with me and you have every right to be. I have ended it with Maria. I know that I really messed up with you. I don’t expect you to give me another chance. But I need you to know that I love you so much. I hope my gift proves that to you.

I stop reading. And open the box. It is a beautiful diamond and sapphire encrusted ring. My stomach does a little somersault. My heart flutters.

Then my head takes over. Trust cannot be bought. Does he really think that an expensive trinket will absolve him? Or serve as proof of love?

He did it to Maria. He can do it to me. And the more I love him, the more it will hurt. My head overrules my heart. I will return the ring.

I throw myself into enjoying the holidays with Mia. And do not give him another thought.

Then Mia goes to stay with her father. And there is nothing to distract me from my bruised heart; it is time to feel the pain. I put Tori Amos on (‘Little Earthquakes’). Light some candles. And prepare myself for the worst.

Then the phone rings.

I throw my arms up in the air. Somebody cares! Somebody save me! I grab the phone. It’s a wrong number. Typical. I start to feel sorry for myself; wailing as I fall to my knees. I hug Mia’s teddy as I curl up in the foetal position. And stay like that for a while.

Then I get angry. I can’t believe I got him so wrong. I am such an idiot.

I stop hugging teddy. And start using him as a punch bag. Then I throw him down. And pull books off the shelves; hurling them across the room.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror and see myself for the drama queen that I can be. I start to giggle. I can’t stop. Not sure if I’m hysterical. Hang on. Wait. No tears! I’m not hysterical! I must be happy! Shit. Tears. Maybe they’re tears of happiness? No. I’m definitely hysterical.

I calm down long enough to notice a flashing light on the answer phone. Joanna has invited me to her New Years Eve party. Ordinarily I wouldn’t go. I haven’t known her very long. But I don't have anything else planned. So it's either that or wait here to be sectioned.

I drive there. I'm feeling too lonely and emotional to drink. And there is nothing that says “I’m vulnerable, hit on me” quite like a woman sobbing into her wine glass.

I walk in. And I am immediately accosted by a very loud American banker. He tells me all about himself in a very confident (verging on arrogant) manner.

Then he offers me a glass of champagne. I tell him I’m sticking to the coke tonight. That seems to get him quite excited “Really? Come with me.”

He takes me by the hand and leads me into the bathroom. I assume Joanna is keeping the drinks in an ice filled bath. I get a little worried when he locks the door behind us.

Then I notice that the bath is empty. I can hear him fumbling around behind me as he says “I can guarantee this is the best you’ve ever had. It will make you feel incredible.”

I turn around sharply with my fist raised. And almost punch the large bag of cocaine that he is holding up; I’m not sure which one of us is more surprised.

He speaks first (whilst clutching his cocaine protectively) “What the hell is wrong with you?” I tell him that I meant coke as in diet. He finds this hysterically funny.

It's a long time since I've been around Class A's. And I did note the symptomatic over confidence, the shouting and the self absorption. But I put it all down to him being a banker (and we all know what that rhymes with).

I leave him to it and rejoin the party.

I retreat to a corner of the room. Then I notice a skinny man wearing a red bowtie (and jeans that are way too tight) walking towards me.

He stops, leans forward and pulls a coin from behind my ear. I smile politely. He takes that as an invitation to start performing his entire repertoire of magic tricks. I say “Wow, that’s great” then add firmly “Now stop it. Please”

He carries on. I walk away. But he follows. And asks if there is a specific trick I would like him to perform for me. I respond with “Yes, make yourself disappear.” He laughs.

I tell him (through gritted teeth) that I’m not joking. He just laughs harder. He is really starting to piss me off. Then I hear “Kitty! There you are!” And I am whisked away by a very attractive man.

He guides me to safety, introduces himself and explains that Joanna sent him to rescue me. I check his pupils (discreetly) to make sure he isn’t high.

The more Jake talks the more attractive I find him. He is funny and charming. There is something endearingly unguarded and open about him.

Then he asks me what I do. I hesitate before replying “I’m a writer” I pre-empt his next question by adding “And no, I’ve never been published. But it is all I've wanted to do since I was nine.” Shut up Kitty. This is not interesting for anyone except you. I stop talking.

But he asks me to continue. So I start to babble nervously at high speed “The-teacher-asked-us-to–write-a-romantic-fairytale-and-I–knew-the-other-girls-would-write-about-kissing-a-frog-that turns-into-a-prince-so-I-wrote-about-a-princess-who-swam-to-the-bottom-of-the-ocean-and-kissed-an-octopus-mine-was-the-only-one-that-went-up-on-the-wall-that-was-the-moment-I-decided-that-I-was-going-to-be-a-writer-unfortunately-I-brought-so-much-shame-on-my-family-rebelling-against-their traditions-and-having-way-too-much-fun,-that-the-only-way-to-redeem-myself-was-to-become-either-a-doctor-or-a-lawyer-and-I hated-the-sciences-so-law-it-was!” I finally take a breath.

I can feel my cheeks burning. I talk too much when I’m nervous. And when I run out of things to talk about, I resort to telling people totally inappropriate things (like the colour of my knickers) just for talking’s sake.

I decide to leave (somewhat abruptly).

I stop off at Anthony’s and post the ring through his letterbox.

I go to bed; my thoughts wandering towards Jake. I sleep until it is time to pick Mia up. And meet Jade.

I walk in expecting Grace Kelly. In my mind she is tall, elegant and effortlessly beautiful. Mark tries to keep me in the hallway. But I walk around him and into the living room. I brace myself for a vision of perfection.

She is short. A tad overweight. And non-descript. It takes me a moment to adjust. Maybe she was a hand model?

I introduce myself and shake her limp hand as she scrutinizes me. I am determined to be civil for Mia’s sake. Then she smirks at me as she asks “Did you have a nice time at the circus?” She is gloating about preventing Mark from joining us on Mia’s birthday; something she clearly views as a victory. I smile as I tell her that we had a wonderful time. And resist the urge to slap her.

But I can’t resist the parting shot that Mia hands me on a plate; “Daddy and Jade work together”, “Really?” I ask, looking from one to the other “How convenient”.

I walk to the car with Mia. My ego is satisfied (no woman wants her ex to upgrade). I don’t like her but I will continue to be civil; until she crosses any kind of line with my daughter...

Mia interrupts my train of thought by asking me what my new year´s resolution is. I absentmindedly say "to be nicer to teddy". She looks suitably confused. Then rattles off her list of rather more grown up resolutions.

Happy New Year (I hope).