"I’m afraid Mia has been involved in a very serious incident". I grab the banister for support as my legs buckle under me.

I try to speak but I can’t find my voice. I’m silently willing her to explain further.

But she remains silent.

I grab my car key and run outside. Then she finally speaks “She hit another child”. I burst into hysterical laughter “Is that all?”

She scolds me with “It’s not a laughing matter”. I explain that I am laughing out of sheer relief. She almost gave me a bloody heart attack; my hands are still shaking.

Her tone is condescending “As I said, this is a very serious matter”.

My relief is quickly replaced by anger. I suggest that it may have been less irresponsible to start the conversation with “Mia is fine” before throwing words like “very serious incident” at me.

And what was with the long dramatic pause? “I was waiting for you to digest the information I had given you”. I tell her that her information was frighteningly vague and therefore almost impossible to digest. In fact I almost choked on it.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you. I was simply calling to ask you to come and take Mia home. She needs to cool off”. And so do I; her tone is really starting to piss me off.

I have barely set foot in her office when she starts lecturing me about the school’s zero tolerance policy on violence. I tell her I’m confused. Mia isn’t the sort of child who lashes out. I ask her to talk me through what happened.

Apparently Mia got into a physical fight with a boy in her class. “Who hit who first?” She tells me that's irrelevant. I disagree. I have taught my daughter that she should never hit someone unless they hit her first.

The boy in question is a known bully “Did he hit her first?” Yes. “In which case, she has done nothing wrong. She acted in self defence”.

She also gave him a bloody nose (I told her to hit back as hard as she could). I explain to Miss Mullins that children who do not hit back end up being bullied. She says that the school rules are very clear; you must not hit anyone under any circumstances.

I tell her that particular rule is flawed and as such, I have advised Mia not to follow it. “You cannot do that. Mia has to follow all the school rules”.

Again, I disagree “She will not blindly follow every single rule you have. She has a right to question them. We all do. It is then up to you to provide justification. And in my opinion, you haven’t been able to justify this particular rule”.

Then there is a knock at the door and a puffy faced Mia is brought in. I give her a big hug. And tell her that she has done nothing wrong while Miss Mullins looks on disapprovingly.

It’s only when we get back to the car that I realise I've locked myself out of the house. We drive to Melek’s to get the spare keys. And end up staying for lunch.

It is early evening by the time we get home. The door feels a little stiff. And I have to really put my weight against it to push it open. Then all this water comes rushing out over our feet.

I don’t know what to do. My mind goes into overdrive. And my body remains frozen to the spot. Then Mia takes me firmly by the hand and says “We need to find out where the water is coming from”. I let her pull me inside.

The water is coming down the stairs. The carpets are ruined. Then she points to the bowed ceiling. And that’s when I remember; I had been running myself a bath when Miss Mullins had called.

I run upstairs to turn the tap off. How could I be so stupid? I scream in anger. Then the tears come.

Mia brings me a tissue and tries to comfort me “You should see this as one of life’s obstacles mummy and just have faith that we can overcome it”.

I immediately stop crying “Where on earth did you get that from?” She looks very pleased with herself “Television! See, I do learn things from watching television!”

I reluctantly pack a suitcase. We can’t stay here tonight. I make a quick phone call. Then we get back in the car.

I take a deep breath before I ring the bell.

My mother opens the door and starts shouting “They’re here! They’re here!” Meyrem and Hatice (her neighbours) come out of the kitchen laughing their heads off “We hear you flooded your house! What a silly thing to do”. I resist the urge to slap them.

“It’s very good of you to take them in Fatma”. My mother shrugs her shoulders. And revels in her martyrdom “What else could we do? Leave them out on the street?”

I excuse myself to unpack. Mia and I will have to share a bed in my grandmother’s old room. I open the wardrobe and put a pile of clothes on the top shelf.

My hand brushes against something cold. I carefully pull out a large hunting knife. Then I take it downstairs to my mother “Why is this in the wardrobe? I could have cut myself.”

She laughs as she takes it from me “Oh, I was wondering where that was!” And I make a mental note to check all the places that Mia is likely to put her hand in.

“Mummy, I’ve just had four biscuits and a crème egg”. My mother sighs “Mia, we agreed to lie about that!” So not only is she pumping my child full of E numbers, she is encouraging her to lie to me.

I must not lose my temper; she can’t do too much damage in a couple of days. I thank Mia for her honesty. And scowl at my mother.

But she doesn’t notice; they are taking it in turns to measure their sugar levels. My mother is the only one with diabetes. Then they start measuring each other’s blood pressure. Predictably all three score highly.

Then Meyrem almost chokes on a piece of bread and has a coughing fit. Hatice diagnoses her with a chest infection and offers her some antibiotics she has “left over from before”.

I'm horrified “You can’t give someone medication that hasn’t been prescribed for them”. She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

But I persist “It’s a very dangerous thing to do. Meyrem could be taking medication that your antibiotics react against.” She tells me that they do it all the time and none of them have died yet.

I turn to my mother “I hope you’re not doing it”. She shakes her head. Then they start to giggle like naughty little schoolgirls. I am just starting to lose my patience with them when the doorbell rings.

My mother introduces me to Meyrem’s nephew. Then they launch into what appears to be a sales pitch.”Doesn’t Gϋlenay look good for thirty-five?” “She’s educated you know, a lawyer”.

Then it’s his turn “Mustafa is an accountant”. Mustafa also bears more than a passing resemblance to Borat. I cringe as he sizes me up like a prize cow.

I grab my mother and pull her into the hallway “What do you think you’re doing?” She feigns ignorance. “And you know full well that I have a boyfriend”.

Actually she doesn’t. Surprisingly Ayșe didn’t mention Jake when she was telling her about my blog. But now I have. Damn it.

I tell her that it’s rude of her to neglect her guests and push her back into the kitchen. Then escape upstairs to bed.

There is a large framed photograph of my grandmother on the wall. I always thought that was sweet but it’s actually a little spooky at night. Every time I open my eyes she is looking down at me.

Mia falls asleep very quickly. But I am having difficulty drowning out the sound of the radio (for Rϋștϋ) and the television.

Turkish television is pretty unpredictable, the volume will suddenly go up to ear piercing levels. And my mother narrates very loudly all the way through.

I put the pillow over my head but I still can’t drown out the sounds. And there is no reprieve when they go to bed either.

They both snore, loudly and incessantly (which is why they sleep in separate bedrooms). Our room is in the middle. It sounds like a god-awful torturous symphony.

I get up to use the bathroom. Then sleepily make my way back to the bedroom. My heart almost stops; there is a woman in a long white nightdress standing in front of me. She doesn’t speak. It’s my grandmother’s ghost.

She holds her arms out. I scream. And she screams back. I turn on the light. It’s my mother. Apparently she heard me get up and was worried that I was ill. I tell her that I just needed to pee.

And that doesn’t explain why she just stood there silently staring at me “I didn’t want to startle you”. What about the outstretched arms? “I thought you needed a hug”.

I tell her (through gritted teeth) that what I need right now is sleep. I go back to bed. At least I have a head start now; I can try and get to sleep before she does. But I have barely settled back when I hear her snoring again.

It feels like I have only just dozed off when I am woken up by a combination of Rϋștϋ chirping and my mother slamming cupboards in the kitchen.

I have a very strong coffee before I drive Mia to school. Then stop off to buy earplugs. It’s either that or commit parricide; I actually considered smothering my mother with a pillow last night. I get back to a wonderfully empty house. And a note from my mother.

They have gone to the Cypriot Community Centre; a government funded organisation that is supposed to promote unity between the elder members of the two sides. That (like Marxism)is wonderful in theory but a dismal failure in reality.

Admittedly I enjoy hearing the stories every week; on one occasion my mother had got into an exchange of words with a Greek Cypriot lady.

One of my mother’s Turkish Cypriot comrades then came to her defence. And started attacking the other woman with her walking stick. Then a full scale hair-pulling, face slapping brawl broke out amongst the rest of the women. And it was left to their men folk to break it up.

Then there was the recent spring trip to the seaside where an administrative error left them two seats short on the coach. It had been agreed that the fairest way to allocate seats would be on a first come first served basis.

Then the last two people on happened to be Greek and the majority Greek administration asked a Turkish couple to get off and let them on.

At that point my father intervened and instructed the Turkish couple to stay in their seats.

Then turned on his Greek adversaries “You think because there are more of you that you can do what you like? You may have got away with it in Cyprus but you will not get away with it here”.

This led to a long stand-off between the two sides. And the trip was cancelled.

They will be fighting with the Greeks for most of the day so I decide to catch up on my sleep. But the radio is blaring out. I turn it off. Then Rϋștϋ starts chirping like a canary possessed. I turn it back on. And he stops.

I tune it to an English station. He starts his crazed chirping again. I put it back on to Turkish. He stops. I do this several times until I am forced to concede that the bloody canary really does like listening to Turkish radio.

Then my phone rings with bad news. The damage is much more extensive than I had thought. We’re going to be here for at least two weeks.

And that leaves me with only two options; parricide or suicide.

I am sitting on my bed; half naked and crying like a baby.

How did this happen? Why is this happening? I hug my knees and rock back and forth mumbling to myself “I can’t wear an odd pair. I just can’t”.

Then I realise how ridiculous I sound. And it occurs to me that I may be over-reacting somewhat.

Yes. It is annoying that I have mislaid one of my stockings but does it really warrant body heaving sobs?

No. Of course it doesn’t. So what the hell is wrong with me? The stockings were merely the trigger; this must be about something much deeper than that. I frantically rack my brain for the underlying cause.

But I am actually happy with my life at the moment. Or maybe I just think I am and my subconscious is trying to tell me otherwise? What have I buried that needs to be dealt with? And if it’s buried so deeply that I don’t even know what it is then how do I get to it?

Then I feel a dull ache in my stomach. And that ache saves me from hours of painfully pointless over analysis; I must be pre-menstrual. I’ve been suffering from it really badly since I started taking that bloody progestogen only pill.

Apparently the risks associated with the combined pill increase significantly once you get to thirty-five; my doctor's words ring in my ears “You’re too old to continue taking it”. And I start crying again. I get up and look in the mirror at my puffy face “I look old. I am old.” I wail at my reflection.

Then I notice my stocking on the bed behind me. I had been sitting on it.

I’m immediately and ridiculously happy, skipping around the bedroom clutching my stocking to my chest. Then I curl up on the bed exhausted. These extreme mood swings can be very tiring. I really must find an alternative method of contraception.

I’m feeling sleepy. Maybe I should just cancel tonight and get under the covers. Then I get a text from Jake see you soon – can’t wait xx.

And it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. I have thirty minutes to make myself look presentable. I get up and splash cold water on my face.

Then I carry out some quick repair work before he arrives; physically I'll pass but I’m worried that my emotional schizophrenia could blight the evening.

So I stand in front of the mirror and give myself a good talking to “You know why you’re emotional so you should be able to control it. Don’t fuck up the evening or you’ll have me to answer to, get it?” My reflection nods sullenly at me.

I meet Jake outside my favourite restaurant; an Italian tucked away in the backstreets of Soho.

I love the slightly rickety old tables covered with red checked tablecloths. And the way they always greet me like a long lost friend (even if I had only eaten there the day before).

“Bella, we have missed you” Alvise kisses my hand. Then gives Jake the once over before seating us at my favourite table.

I smile at Jake. I have never felt such a strong physical attraction to someone in my life. He looks delicious. And he’s mine. This is going to be a fabulous evening.

Then Anthony walks in. What the hell is he doing here? This is my restaurant; my bloody territory. He lost the right to come here when we split up. I watch as a very attractive woman follows close behind.

This really is too much. I hide behind my menu before he can spot me. Alvise greets Anthony. Then turns and throws me a ‘what’s going on?’ look. I’ll be damned if I know.

But I can’t help peering around the side of the menu to take a closer look at the woman. Dark hair. Olive skin. Prominent nose. She could be Greek. Oh my god. Is that Maria?

He seats them at the furthest table from ours. But it’s a small restaurant. So it’s still too close. Jake exposes me by taking the menu away “That’s better. I can see you now”.

I quickly excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I need to pee. I also need to think. Why is this happening now? I knew I’d bump into him sooner or later but I wasn’t expecting it to be here. And not when I’m trying to control my PMT.

I sit on the toilet. What do I do? Do I tell Maria what a cheating shit he is? Or is she better off living in ignorant bliss? But am I being a traitor to my own sex by not telling her?

What’s the moral code for this situation? I take several deep breaths. How do I feel about seeing Anthony? Angry. Very angry. Does that mean I still have feelings for him? No. I’m angry because he is an arsehole.

Then I tug (angrily) at the toilet paper. The large plastic toilet roll holder box flips open and smacks me very hard on the side of the face. It really fucking hurts. I blink back the tears. Then I check my reflection; I have a red welt on my cheekbone.

I am putting all my energy into not losing control emotionally so something has to give. And it’s my balance. I trip over the step and go flying into the restaurant.

Alvise helps me back on to my feet. Then he notices my cheek. And draws even more attention to me by making a big fuss. Anthony looks up and actually has the nerve to smile at me. I scowl back.

Jake comes over “What happened? Are you ok?” I assure him that I’m fine. Then notice that my stocking is ripped. Why didn’t I just stay in bed? Alvise tells him he’ll look after me and leads me into the kitchen.

He gets me an ice pack then asks “Now, what is happening with you and the Greek?” I explain that we had got back together.

Then I found out he had a girlfriend. “The bastard. You want me to throw him out?” I tell him no as I pull off my stockings; bare legs are less trashy than ripped stockings.

I make my way back to the table, holding the ice pack to my cheek. I can feel Anthony’s eyes following me all the way back. Jake looks concerned “Is everything ok?” I smile and try to behave ‘normally’ but he notices that I’m distracted.

So I confess that Anthony is a recent ex. And that it didn’t end too well. He isn’t at all fazed. He doesn’t even look around to check him out.

It’s wonderful to be with a man who is so secure and self-assured. So why I can’t help thinking that he should at least be a little jealous?

I try to focus on Jake but I can’t help watching that creep out of the corner of my eye. He is putting on a little show for me, leaning over to stroke her face and holding her hand.

Then Jake goes to the bathroom. And I decide to make Anthony sweat a little.

I walk over to their table. “Hello Anthony” He isn’t looking quite so cocky now. Then I turn to the woman “And you must be Maria”. She isn’t. She hisses at him “Who is Maria?” He explains that she is his ex-girlfriend.

Then she asks (in a distinctly hostile tone) “And who is she?” I explain that I am also his ex-girlfriend. Then I wish her luck and walk off. She doesn’t look too happy.

I can hear her giving him a hard time as I sit back down “Why did she wish me luck? How many ex-girlfriends have you got exactly?” I watch him squirm. Then she insists that they leave. And they do.

Her behaviour leaves me in no doubt that they are not in the early stages of a relationship; he was probably seeing her at the same time as me and Maria. And that makes me incredibly angry.

Then Jake comes back and takes my hand in his. He looks at me in a way that simultaneously dissipates my anger, makes me tingle and temporarily disconnects my brain from my mouth;

“It’s-probably-too-soon-to-say-this- and-I-probably- shouldn’t- say- it- now-and-I’ve-certainly-never-said-it-this-quickly-before-not-that-I’ve-even-said-it-that-many-times-but-I-really-can’t-help-how-I-feel”.

The connection is restored before I make a complete fool of myself. But I’ve already said too much. Jake is waiting for me to continue. I must think quickly.

Then Alvise bends down and (stage) whispers in my ear “Say it, just say it. Tell him you love him”. My cheeks are burning. This is so embarrassing.

Jake leans over and kisses me “I love you too”. I burst into tears. Then I quickly explain that they are tears of happiness. And that I am very hormonal which makes me emotionally unstable. He tells me I’m cute as he wipes my tears away.

I’m still feeling emotionally unstable when Mark drops Mia off in the morning. He asks me what happened to my cheek. And his concerned expression makes me well up.

I explain how it happened. There is a brief pause. Then they both start laughing. And Mia’s laugh is infectious so I find myself laughing with them.

Then he turns to look at me as he leaves. And I feel a huge pang of regret as I watch him walk away.

That does it. First thing tomorrow I’m going to get the contraceptive injection.

Ayșe can barely contain her excitement “Ha! You’re not the only president in the family now you know!”

She pauses for dramatic effect. Then clears her throat very loudly to ensure she has the attention of the entire room before proudly announcing that she is the newly elected president of the North London Turkish Cypriot Association.

I tell her that I’m very happy for her. But I’m also a little confused “What am I the president of?” She responds with “The student union of course”. I laugh then realise that she is being serious “But that was so many years ago”.

Apparently that is irrelevant. The important point for me (and everyone else) to note is that I am no longer the only one in the family who can claim that title.

I don’t have the heart to tell my insanely competitive sister that I never cared about the title. And that I only did it because I wanted an office to get stoned in with my friends.

Then I realise that I haven’t actually thought about that period of my life for years. And in retrospect, I think the presidency was responsible for more than simply getting me high. It also paved the way for a (mainly farcical) rite of passage;

I quickly realise that I need a political platform to sustain my position so I take the safe option and join the National Organisation of Labour Students. Then the manifestos for the N.U.S National Executive elections come through.

I had decided not to stand. But I open it to find my mini-skirted image staring back at me with a manifesto that I didn’t write. I am incredulous.

So I leave them and join ‘The Leninist’ instead. I read Lenin, Marx and Engels. Then it all starts to make sense. Equality is the way forward. It’s something worth fighting for. And I can finally be a rebel with a cause.

I start wearing Red Army jackets (covered in badges of Lenin and Marx) with a micro skirt (read ‘belt’) shirt and tie. I complete the look with a pair of doc marten boots. Then I smother my face with make-up, backcomb my hair to within an inch of its life and smear my lips with bright red lipstick.

Then I react aggressively when people stare at me in the street “What the hell are you looking at?” And I am absolutely furious on Comic Relief day when people keep giving me the thumbs up and saying stupid things like “Nice one!”

I am indignant when they try to give me money and tell me I’m a sport for dressing up for Comic Relief. Obviously I can see their point now but at the time I honestly didn’t think there was anything remotely amusing about the way I chose to ‘express myself’.

The sixteen year old Kitty is making me positively squirm with embarrassment. And it actually gets worse;

I start to greet people with the words "What we need is a violent revolution followed by a democratic dictatorship of the proletariat". Yes. I really spoke like that. And I really was ready to start a revolution.

I would threaten anyone who crossed me with the words “Come the day of the revolution my friend and your back will be up against that wall”.

No wonder I was considered weird. I looked like a war waging drag queen. And I spoke like an automaton.

Then I find myself sitting in a seminar entitled ‘modern art and communism’. I listen impatiently. Why are we wasting our time like this? I put my hand up and say “Comrades, when are we going to start educating the working classes so they can rise like yeast?”

They shift around uncomfortably in their seats. Comrade Stan murmurs that we have to wait until the time is right. But none of them can actually tell me when that time will be.

It’s obvious now that they were all armchair revolutionaries playing at being radicals. Comrade Stan even wore a flat cap. But I was young and naive. And I really thought we were going to change the world.

I get really excited when they tell me about the ‘summer offensive’ where we all have to raise money for the organisation. Surely that means we can start funding the revolution? Erm..no.

The money is to pay the mortgage of our ‘unofficial leader’ whose house is used as a venue to discuss such pressing issues as the aforesaid link between modern art and communism.

Apparently the poor man can’t get a job because he has been blacklisted by the government for his political beliefs. I start to lose faith. I raise five hundred pounds though street collections then I sit on my bed looking at the money.

I remember George Orwell "I look from man to pig and pig to man and can no longer tell the difference". And I wise up.

If I thought they were anything other than armchair revolutionaries, I would happily hand over the money to support the cause.

But I refuse to contribute towards the mortgage of a lazy middle class drop-out who has no more intention of starting a revolution than he does of getting a job.

I keep the money and don’t go back. A lesson learned. I go from being naively idealistic to cynically corrupt practically overnight.

I become a Goth. And decide that I can’t save the world but I can save myself. I re-write the constitution so I can stand as president for a consecutive year. I get it passed by the suits at the board of governors by slipping it in under ‘any other business’.

I had learned that they would agree to anything to end a tedious four hour meeting (I got through it by adding copious amounts of vodka to my McDonalds coke). I don’t believe I left one of those meetings sober.

I follow the rules. And put up posters calling for nominations (at 6pm when everyone has left). Then I take them down again at 8am (before anyone arrives). That means they were up for the requisite minimum of twelve hours. It also means I get in un-apposed.

I take the executive (comprising of my friends) to Amsterdam on a student union ‘cultural tour’. I put speakers in the common room and blast out music all day. The principal wants them removed.

I refuse and explain that I have had the speakers installed in such a way that if they are disconnected incorrectly it would amount to criminal damage. So they stay.

I get attacked at NUS conference by militant "feminists" for “selling out to the male fantasy” because I have long hair. I say they are confused and ask them why, if they hate men so much, do they try so hard to look like them? I tell them they suffer from penis envy. Then make a run for it before they rearrange my face.

I cause chaos everywhere I go. I am full of the arrogance of youth. And dangerously aware of the power of sexuality. The militants had called me an ‘anti-feminist’. But I believed that being a feminist meant using your sexuality, not denying it.

And that belief almost certainly saved me from a criminal record; I would wear a short skirt or a low cut top whenever I needed the deputy principal to sign cheques that were slightly dubious. He was always too distracted by me leaning over him to look at what he was signing.

So when he tells me that accusations have been made against me for mismanagement of union funds, I respond with “Surely these unfounded accusations are also directed against you given that you co-signed every one of the cheques in question?”

I smile sweetly at him as his face turns puce. He is left with no choice other than to agree that the accusations are unfounded and that no further action is required.

Then my trip down memory lane is brought to an abrupt end by Ayșe elbowing me in the ribs. She is laughing so hard I’m worried she’ll wet herself “Look at the state of you!”

My mother has found evidence of my militia slut look. And is passing the album around “See what she put us through?” Her friends make sympathetic noises and shake their heads at me.

My mother sighs “Thank goodness she has changed”.

Admittedly, the way I look now is (thankfully) very different. But I’m not sure that the essence of me has changed that significantly;

I still believe in equality but acknowledge that it is an impossible ideal. I still wear red lipstick but only on special occasions. I still use my sexuality occasionally but I am much more subtle about it.

And given the right cause, I think I would still be prepared to start a revolution (of sorts)...

It is five o’clock in the morning. And I am not in my bed.

I whisper “Bismillah al-rahman-al rahim” over and over again. Then I turn the key in the engine.

And continue whispering “Bismillah al-rahman-al rahim”. Jake asks me what I’m chanting. I reluctantly translate for him “In the name of Allah who is most gracious and merciful”.

I tell him it’s just a little something my mother taught me to say before a long drive. What I don’t tell him is that this is the first time I’ve ever said it. Or that this is the first time I will ever have driven on a motorway. And that is why I really need god to show me (and him) a bit of mercy.

Of course it would have made much more sense to start off with a little jaunt to Brighton. But that would have been far too sensible. And I am a person of extremes. So my foray into motorway driving is going to be a ten hour roundtrip from London to the Lake District.

I feel euphoric when I manage to get us (and the car) there in one piece. We have a full English breakfast before we begin our hike. I let Jake take the lead. Partly because he knows what he’s doing. But mainly because I like watching his pert bottom.

It’s hard going but I am enjoying every moment. It feels invigorating to have the wind in my face and fresh air in my lungs.

It is just the two of us surrounded by nothing except nature. And it feels incredibly cathartic. Although I do find the sheep a little disturbing; I don’t like the way they look at me.

My legs are absolutely aching by the time we reach the top. And the climb has clearly made me delirious because I find myself (involuntarily) bursting into song “There’s always gonna be another mountain, always gonna wanna make it move”.

Aside from the (embarrassing) fact that I am singing a Miley Cyrus song, I am tone deaf. But I don’t care. I never thought I could climb a mountain.

This is the second time today that I have challenged myself. And triumphed. I can’t help thinking that Jake is playing a part in that.

The wind is ferocious. I lay giggling with my arms and legs splayed on the tent trying to keep it down while Jake attempts to pitch it.

Our teamwork pays off. And it’s not long before I’m warming my hands on a hot mug of tea. Then I realise that I need to pee. Oh dear. I ask Jake not to look while I stick my bum out of the tent.

Then I turn around to see the bloody sheep staring at me. I get stage fright. My bum almost freezes off by the time I manage to pee.

I drink as little as possible for the rest of the night. There is absolutely no dignity in having a pee outside. And it’s bloody freezing. I put on another layer. Then Jake zips me into my sleeping bag.

The ground is uneven and very uncomfortable. I have never slept in a tent before. And I never will again. Jake falls asleep easily.

The wind is howling outside. The top of the tent is too close to my face. I am starting to feel claustrophobic. I unzip the bag and start frantically pulling my layers off.

I am finally dozing off when I feel something pushing hard against my leg. It must be Jake. I try to wriggle closer to him. Then I feel it again against my right shoulder. And realise that Jake is on my left. I scream at him to wake up.

He tries to calm me down by explaining that it’s just a sheep nudging the tent with its head. But I feel very vulnerable and exposed. It occurs to me that the tent is probably thinner than a shower curtain. And that makes me think of ‘Psycho’.

“But all kinds of rapists and murderers can just slash the tent and get in can’t they?” Jake tries to reassure me “Most people don’t climb a mountain to commit a crime”.

I concede that is a rational argument. And pretend that I’m feeling fine. Then I spend a sleepless night trying to avoid the sheep’s head. And the minority of rapists and murderers who get a sick kick out of climbing a mountain before committing their heinous crimes.

I am relieved when the sun comes up. And I can get the hell out of the tent. I have no make-up on. And my hair is a mess. But I am too cold to do anything about it. I sullenly refuse Jake’s offer of breakfast. And we make our descent in silence.

I warm up in the car. Then stop off at a service station for a caffeine fix. And to sort my face out. It’s amazing what a little bit of mascara and blusher can do. I feel much better as we hit the motorway again (with the music blaring to keep me awake).

“Bloody lorries, can you smell that rubber?” He can. Then he notices that people are pointing at our car as they drive past. He turns the music off. They are also tooting their horns. He winds his window down “I think that smell is coming from our car”.

Then the steering wheel suddenly veers to the left. “Bismillah al-rahman-al rahim, Bismillah al-rahman-al rahim” I somehow manage to manouver the car across two lanes of traffic and on to the hard shoulder.

I would like to put that down to my awesome driving skills. But I think it was simply because everybody else on the road was giving me (and my burning tyre) a very wide berth.

We get out of the car. My legs almost give way when I see what is left of my shredded tyre. The RAC man turns up very quickly.

Apparently I was driving on a flat for some time. He changes the wheel. Then suggests I get the car realigned.

We have to complete our drive home in the slow lane. And it seems to take forever. I run a bath for us as soon as we get back. Then Jake lovingly massages my aching body until I feel wonderfully relaxed.

We managed to survive a night in a tent, my strop in the morning and a flaming tyre on the motorway. He is definitely a keeper. I fall asleep in his arms grateful for my nice warm bed.

Then I wake up in the middle of the night filled with anxiety. The RAC man said we had been very lucky. But what if we hadn't? What if I had died?

I have made a will so I have provided for Mia financially in the event of my death but not emotionally. There is so much I would want to tell her that would be left unsaid.

I tip toe out of the bedroom. And sit down at my computer.

My Darling Mia

I’m not really gone sweetheart. I would never leave you. It's only my body that isn’t there anymore. You can’t see me but I will never leave your side. You will feel me close by. My love for you will never die. Be strong but know that it’s ok to feel weak sometimes too.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help from our family and friends. Talk to them about me, ask them any question you want, they will answer you honestly. I will only really die if you forget me.

Keep me alive in your memory and in your heart. Allow yourself to grieve in whatever way you want to. Know that you’ll come out the other side. Try not to go into yourself for too long. Let other people in. Try to talk to them about how you feel.

It’s ok to feel angry that you can’t see me anymore but try to understand that there is a reason for everything . And always remember that you are never alone.

Always be true to yourself and how you feel. Always remember that you have a choice. You are a bright beautiful star.

Don’t turn me into a saint. I wasn’t perfect. None of us are. Keep me real. Forgive me for any mistakes I made. Accept that they are part of life. But know that I always tried to learn from them.

Know that you were the best thing that ever happened to me. You made my life complete. I don’t know how long I had with you but I do know it won’t have been long enough.

Build your castles in the sky and don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t. Be happy. Don’t look back unless it’s to gain understanding. Always live in the present with one eye on the future. Never accept less than you know you deserve. And know that you deserve the best.

Never be afraid to say how you feel even if other people don’t like it. Never compare yourself to other people. You are you; a unique combination of strength, wisdom, beauty and compassion.

Never think that you have to fit a stereotype. You don’t have to be one thing or the other. Be everything that you know you are and don’t be afraid of contradictions.

Don’t worry about other people understanding you. Just understand yourself. Live your life with generosity of spirit, kindness and compassion for others. Above all, live! Know that you’re alive. Embrace everything life has to offer, the good and the bad.

Be honest, with yourself and others, however painful it may be sometimes. The truth will always free you. Trust me on that.

Look to others for guidance but always follow your own instincts and intuition and make the final decision for yourself. Consider others but always make the best decision for you.

Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. And don’t beat yourself up for them. Always try to turn a negative into a positive. Always be willing to learn and to grow. Don’t be dictated to by society’s ‘norms’ and restrictions; live your life the way you want to.

I know that whatever you choose to do I’ll be watching you with pride. Know that you could never disappoint me.

I love you.

Mummy xx

There is absolutely no point in asking them not to talk with their mouths full because they never stop talking. Or eating.

I watch (horrified) as bits of dolma shoot rapidly out of my mother’s constantly moving mouth. And hit me in the face at close range. I wipe them off. Then keep my head down in a bid to avoid getting any more of their food in my face.

I am sat at the kitchen table with my mother and two of her cronies. My head is starting to hurt. They only have one volume (high). And it is impossible to switch them off.

But I can switch off the Turkish radio. My mother turns it back on “Rṻṣtṻ likes it”. I point out that Rṻṣtṻ is a canary. She responds with “Yes, he is a canary who likes to listen to Turkish radio”.

It is at moments like this that I can’t decide whether she is a little eccentric or simply certifiable. I opt for eccentric (but only because we share the same genes).

They resume their gossiping “He had a heart attack and died when he realised that the woman he had fallen in love with was his long lost daughter”. I look up and narrowly avoid being hit in the eye by a small (chewed up) piece of lamb. I owe my fast reflexes to years of eating at this table.

“How awful, the poor man. How did that happen?” They respond simultaneously, happily shouting over each other. Then I realise that they are talking about one of their favourite soap operas. I should have known better but they talk about it all so emphatically that it is difficult not to get drawn in.

At least she hasn’t mentioned anything about finding a husband for me in Cyprus. I tune out and continue to eat my food in silence.

Then she slaps my leg to get my attention “I said Ayṣe tells me that you write some very funny things on the web net”. I almost choke on a potato. All three of them are staring silently at me. I try to buy some time “It’s called the internet”.

My mother purses her lips and crosses her arms “So what exactly is it that you write about on the internet?” I mumble something about “life you know, that kind of thing”. Shit. Shit. Shit. “And me? Do you write about me?” I assess how long I have to get to the door before she bends down for her slipper. I think I can make it.

I say “Sometimes” then try to make a run for it. She grabs hold of my arm “It’s ok. I’m not angry with you”. I sit back down reluctantly. She may just be lulling me into a false sense of security. I lean away from her (out of pinching range).

“I hear that your readers like me”. Then she smoothes her hair down “I suppose they’ll be wanting to see a photo of me soon won’t they?” The other two chime in excitedly “Write about us too!”

I’m going to kill Ayṣe. My other sister (Melek) has been reading the blog for months and hasn’t mentioned it to my parents once. Ayṣe has only been reading it for two weeks. And blabbed to them as soon as they got back from Cyprus. I really should have known that she would be the weakest link;

I was fourteen when the Guardian newspaper ran an article on the aspirations of students in deprived inner city schools. I told them I wanted to be a journalist. When they asked me what motivated me, I replied “I look into my mother’s eyes and see myself in thirty year’s time. And I don’t want that”.

I only realised how bad that sounded once it was published. Luckily my mother couldn’t read English. So I had just shown her the page with my photo on it. Then translated the article to her (omitting that particular line). She proudly showed it to everyone that came over. And they all had enough tact not to enlighten her. All except for Ayṣe.

I send her a text, I hope you didn’t tell mum that I wrote about the pigeon blood.

My mother brings out a bowl of loquats as soon as her little sidekicks leave “Eat them quickly. I only brought back enough yeni dunya for you”.

I thank her but tell her I am so full that I can hardly breathe. She retorts “Or did you only like them when you had been smoking hashish?” Fuck. Ayṣe must have told them about that too.

I have a flashback to a stoned sixteen year old me in a grocers in Bermondsey “Hey man, I’m looking for new worlds” I only knew them as ‘yeni dunya’. And the literal translation for that is ‘new world’. So I assumed that’s what they would be called in English.

I got really confused when he responded with “Yes love, aren’t we all but you’re not going to find anything other than fruit and veg here”.

My mother looks very pleased with herself, “Do you think we didn’t know that you did that shit?” I’m stunned into silence. Then my father wipes the smug look off her face “You didn’t know. I did.” Apparently he knows about red-eye. He winks at me “We had hashish in Cyprus too”.

And it wasn’t just red-eye that gave me away. He had watched me one day as I walked into my room carrying a handful of loquats and a glass of water. I had put the loquats carefully on the side. Then threw the glass of water on to the bed.

Then there was the time he saw me put a slice of bread in the fridge and wait for it to toast. He has a little smile playing on his lips “Would you like me to continue?” I am mortified.

My mother slaps me around the head “Eṣek” (donkey). And goes upstairs to pray. Every now and then she plays the part of a devout Muslim; praying five times a day. Then she claims that either her knees or her back hurts. And she stops. We all make bets on how long it’ll last; I tell my father I have a tenner riding on two weeks. He laughs.

Then he says “I only told your mother the story about the yeni dunya’s once Ayṣe said you had written about being stoned.” I ask him why he hadn’t told her at the time. He shakes his head “Can you imagine how she would have reacted? No, it was enough that I knew”.

I make the mistake of asking him what else he knew. A lot as it happens. He used to drop me off every week at my friends house. I would wave him off. And run into her house to get changed. Then go off to meet my boyfriend. I would get back around twenty minutes before he was due to pick me up.

Apparently he would arrive thirty minutes before and wait around the corner so he would always see me running back to her house. I cringe as I remember how I’d sit in the car chattering away about the board game we’d played or the homework we’d done. And he never gave any indication that he didn’t believe my version of events. Or that he knew about the tiny change of clothes in my bag.

My father may not be an educated man but he is a very wise one. I thought I was so smart pulling the wool over his eyes. But my father was much smarter. He tells me that he knows a lot more but he doesn’t think it serves any purpose to talk about it now.

I was a total wild child. And very self-destructive; I feel sick when I think of some of the things he might know. “If you knew so much, then why didn’t you disown me?” I know Turkish men of his generation who have disowned their daughters for a lot less.

He considers this for a moment “Because you would probably have ended up dead if I had let go of you” He has tears in his eyes “And I always knew you’d come good in the end”.

His hand is shaking as he lights a cigarette. He isn’t very good with emotion. And I am my father’s daughter. So I’m not sure what to do. I want to hug him but I know he doesn’t like that. I reach out for his hand “You’re right. Thank you for not letting go baba ”.

Then my mother walks in. And the moment is lost. She sits down next to me “I suppose you are writing as Kitty on the internet. Why don’t you use your real name?” I tell her that I hate people mispronouncing it. And it is impossible to know how Gṻlenay is pronounced unless you are familiar with Turkish (it is pronounced goo-len-eye).

It also doesn’t help that the literal translation of my name in English is Laughing Moon. Although that makes a bit more sense now I know that they had hashish in Cyprus.

My phone beeps with a message. It’s from Ayṣe, I did tell her about the pigeon blood. I told her everything. It’s all very funny!

I apologise to my mother “I’m sorry I wrote about you not being a virgin when you got married”. She shrugs her shoulders “It’s ok. I told the whole family so why shouldn’t you tell the whole world?” tell her that my blog really isn’t that popular.

Then she says “Ayṣe tells me you write really well. Is this what you want to do with your life now? Write?” I tell her it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. And that I only became a lawyer to make them proud. She smiles “In that case, you have my permission to write whatever you like about me.” Then she pulls me in for a big hug and almost suffocates me with her ample bosom.

I smile (despite struggling to breathe) because I know how lucky I am to have parents who love me to death.

I have been dreading this moment ever since Jake and I got together.

Joanna hasn’t seen me yet. I could just walk back out. But I will only be delaying the inevitable so I say a breezy “Hello”. And brace myself.

She is distinctly frosty towards me as we half-heartedly exchange pleasantries. My discomfort is intensified by the fact that she is naked. I don’t know where to look. So I concentrate on maintaining eye contact. But this is a little difficult when she keeps bending down to rub moisturiser onto her legs.

Then curiosity gets the better of me. And my eyes fall to her breasts before moving slowly across her stomach and thighs. It is not often I get the opportunity to compare my body against that of a real woman instead of an airbrushed version.

And her body is pretty impressive so I have to look longer and harder for flaws. Then she suddenly blurts out “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Damn. She caught me. My cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

“Seriously, what is a woman like you doing with my brother?
”Excuse me? “A woman like me? What is that supposed to mean?” She responds with “You honestly don’t know?”

A wave of panic rushes through my body. And makes its way out of my mouth “if-you-think-I’m-into-women-just-because-I-was-checking-out-your-body-then-you-are-wrong-trust-me-I-wasn’t-getting-any-pleasure-out-of-looking-at-your-body-not-that-you-haven’t-got-a-nice-body-but-I-was-only-looking-to-see-if-you-had-any-cellulite-or-stretchmarks-or-flabby-bits-not-that-you-have-well-actually-you-do-have-some-cellulite-but-hey-haven’t-we-all?”

Then my brain catches up. And it suddenly hits me “Oh. That was a reference to my age and not my sexuality wasn’t it?” Correct. And now she is being really hostile because I mentioned her cellulite “You’re far too old for him”

I point out that he has the manner of someone much older. Then remind her that she had the opportunity to tell me how young he was before I agreed to go out with him. But she didn’t take it. Then I surprise myself by adding “And I’m glad you didn’t because I may have missed out on something very special”.

She responds with “Oh yes, I’m sure the sex is very special” I ignore her sarcasm. And manage to keep my cool while she has a little rant at me. Then she calls me a ‘cougar’.

I explain (through gritted teeth) that cougars are women who deliberately prey on younger men. I thought Jake was older. In fact the only thing that I would change about him would be his age.

And I didn’t prey on him. “Therefore, by definition, I am most certainly not a bloody cougar”. I take my boxing gloves out of my bag. And slam the locker shut. Then I storm out of the changing room.

I go into the gym. And pummel the punch bag until my arms ache and I can’t see through my sweat. I don’t think I have quite come to terms with how our relationship is going to be perceived by others. And there won’t always be a punch bag in the near vicinity. So I really must find a way to deal with it that doesn’t involve violence.

My hands are still shaky when I get home. And what I am attempting to do requires both precision and a steady hand.

I empty the shampoo out of the bottle. Then I carefully fill it with head lice treatment. I’m putting the lid back on when I identify a flaw in my carefully thought out plan; the treatment won’t lather the way shampoo does.

Then it occurs to me that conditioner doesn’t lather either. So I empty the conditioner out of the bottle. And transfer the head lice treatment into that. Then I (strategically) place candles around the bathroom away from anything that is likely to go up in flames.

I have just finished when the doorbell rings. I open the door and leap into Jake’s arms (being very careful to avoid our heads touching). It is some time before we make it from the hallway into the living room. There is absolutely no denying the physical attraction between us. But Joanna is wrong; it is much more than just that otherwise it wouldn’t be so intense.

Then the phone rings. I can’t ignore it just in case it’s Mia. It isn’t. It’s my mother. She is on her way back from the airport and wants to pick up her bag.

I ask if it can wait until tomorrow. She gets annoyed “You said to call before I came over and I’m calling so what is the problem now?” The problem is that she is calling when she is only five minutes away.

I apologise to Jake. And ask him if he can wait in the bedroom until I get rid of her. I acknowledge that hiding him from my family is becoming a recurring theme; first Mia and now my mother. But I am doing this for his own good.

Jake reminds me that his mother is Spanish “so I am used to the Mediterranean....” He pauses before diplomatically concluding his sentence with “temperament”.

I quickly pull the clothes out of the top of the wardrobe until I get to the bag and yank it down. But I didn’t zip it up properly after I took my grandmother’s necklace out. And bundles of cash start flying out all over the floor. Shit. How dodgy does that look?

Then the doorbell rings. Jake helps me put all the money back in the bag “Don’t tell me, it’s their life savings and they don’t trust banks?” I nod. He understands their madness. And that makes him even more desirable.

I run to the door. My mother gives me a big hug “Why are you out of breath?” I hand her the bag. And tell her not to keep my father waiting. She eyes me suspiciously as she walks off.

I wait until the car disappears. Then let Jake out of the bedroom. I try not to wince when he scratches his head.

It’s time to put my master plan into action; I suggest we take a bath together. He says he had a shower before he came over. Oh dear. He thinks I am suggesting he needs a wash.

I explain that I am not questioning his personal hygiene standards “In fact, I think they are exemplary. I just think that it would be really sensual. And I would love you to lather my body”. He says that a bath sounds like a fabulous idea.

I light the candles, put the champagne in the ice bucket and scatter rose petals into the bath. I take Jake’s clothes off. Then mine. And lead him into the bathroom. It is all so romantic that I almost forget my ulterior motive.

We sink into the warm water with rose petals floating around us. The candle light and soft music heighten the sense of fantasy. I wrap my legs around him. Then I have to break the spell. And tell him that I’m going to give him a head massage with a deep conditioning treatment.

I massage the treatment in. He wrinkles his nose. I hold my breath. But he is too polite to mention the strong smell. Now I have to distract him for at least ten minutes to allow the treatment to work. So I massage his neck and shoulders.

Then I start kissing him. And the water is cold by the time I stop. I am rinsing his hair when the most absurd thought occurs to me; I think I am falling in love with him.

But I can’t be. This is only our third date. And I really don’t know him that well yet. I must be mistaking lust for love. That is much more logical.

No. Fuck logic. I’ll go with emotion. I am falling in love with him. Full stop. No justification. No logic. Wow. I’m making progress. Jake is obviously good for me.

We spend another incredible evening together. Then I find myself agreeing to go hiking with him next weekend. I don’t really ‘do’ the outdoors. I’m very much a city girl. And it isn’t exactly romantic.

But he asked me while I was drifting off towards a delicious sleep with his beautiful body wrapped around mine. And I would have agreed to absolutely anything at that moment in time.

I make a mental note not to commit to anything else unless we are both fully dressed. And I can’t see that happening for a while...

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?