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).

It‘s 1am on Christmas morning.

I have nibbled the carrots. And I am just biting into my third Turkish delight when I hear “Mummy, what are you doing? That’s for Santa.” She is cross. And I am busted.

I recover quickly and tell her that I am eating Santa’s leftovers. I point out his glitter footprints (that I painstakingly create every year; all the way from the front door to the Christmas tree). I must make sure that the next house we live in has a fireplace. And put the Christmas tree right next to it.

I get away with it. Then she asks if Santa has replied to her letter. I usher her back to bed. And hunt for the letter.

She keeps throwing me these curve balls; the last time I was playing tooth fairy she left a note wanting to know what the fairies did with all the teeth they collected. It took me thirty (long) minutes to come up with we use them to make jewellery for the queen fairy.

It’s late. I hope she hasn’t left too many difficult questions for Santa.

I search the entire living room. And I still can’t find the letter. But that means Santa wouldn’t be able to find it either. So I’m off the hook. I can go to bed.

Then I remember the pile of empty glitter tubes in the bin. Mia mustn’t see them. I go outside to empty the bin. And that’s when I see it; Mia’s letter to Santa. She has taped it to the front door. I must remember to watch her every move before she goes to bed next year.

We have a magical morning. Then head to my brothers for a Turkish Christmas. That is a contradiction in terms. But somehow it works.

My nephew arrives with his (English) girlfriend. Jenny seems understandably overwhelmed by everyone. I introduce myself. And try to make her feel at ease.

She says she didn’t know ‘Kitty’ was a Turkish name. It isn’t.

I explain that it’s a nickname. I was two months premature. And my sister said I looked like a little kitten. Kitten became Kitty. And it stuck. I prefer it to my name (which is virtually unpronounceable).

I’ve always been Kitty. Except for the brief period (as a teenager) when I called myself Courtney. This led to my mother (tearfully) asking me if I was “one of those butch lesbians.”

This confused me somewhat. I told her that I was neither butch nor a lesbian. She responded with “So why are you calling yourself Colin then?” She had taken a call for ‘Courtney’ but somehow heard it as ‘Colin’. Apparently she had been praying for me to be ‘cured’ for weeks.

Jenny laughs. My mother isn’t amused. She glares at us before declaring “And Allah answered my prayers.” Then she turns to poor Jenny “Do you pray?” I can’t save Jenny. But I can save myself. I walk off.

It takes at least fifteen minutes to greet everyone. I go to kiss my elderly aunt. And she practically recoils from me. I was expecting that. She has been treating me like the devil incarnate since the infamous mosque incident (fifteen years ago).

It was my grandmother’s funeral. And my first time at a mosque; I volunteer to wait outside with my little niece. Then she starts crying hysterically. She only stops when I promise to take her to her mother. I plan to get in and out as quickly as possible.

There is a man leading the prayers from behind a white screen. And rows and rows of women; their heads covered with beautiful sheer headscarves. They are praying; going down on their knees, touching the floor with their foreheads and getting back up again.

I am fascinated. It looks like an overdressed low impact aerobics class.

My niece runs to her mother. And I turn to leave. But I am grabbed by that aunt. She throws a coat over my head. Then forcibly drags me into line and gestures to me to start praying.

I know this is the one time and place where I really can’t cause a scene. So I try to comply. But I am totally out of synch. Up when they are all down. And down when they are all up.

The winter coat over my head is heavy. It keeps falling down over my eyes. I stumble into my aunt. She falls and pulls the woman in front of her down too. Then I land on top of them.

I have given up trying to persuade my aunt to see the funny side of it (and visually, it really is hilarious).

I manage to land a kiss on her cheek before she swats me away. And starts muttering “tovbe, tovbe” (“forgive her for her sins”).

We eat in three sittings; turkey with all the trimmings (and shish kebab). Then everyone squeezes into the living room to pay tribute to my parents on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. My brother presents them with an engraved plaque. My father makes a very moving speech.

Then my mother decides to tell us all about their wedding night.

She explains that the entire village would wait outside the marital home for proof of the bride’s virginity. This would come in the form of a white bed sheet being hung from the window.

She laughs as she prepares to deliver the punch line; they had sex "many times" before they were married. So my father had snuck in a pigeon, slit its throat and used its blood for the sheet.

I find her little anecdote disturbing on so many levels.

My aunt is horrified. And starts with the whole“tovbe,tovbe” thing again. Everyone is shocked into silence. My father is mortified.

I must do something to break the tension. I pick up the remote, point it at the CD player and press play.

Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” blares out.

My mother leaps up, pulls my father to his feet and shouts “Dance with me!” She stumbles back on to the sofa. And pulls my father down on top of her. Then she giggles like a little girl. This is very odd behaviour. Even for my mother.

My father is a very proud man who has an innately regal air about him. And he is clearly distressed by her antics. He stands up, smoothes down his jacket and straightens his tie.

She is still giggling. Then she kicks her legs up in the air and gives us all a glimpse of her knickers.

My sister picks up my mother’s glass. And takes a sip of her orange juice “Who gave her this?” My nephew is trying to sneak out of the door.

He has been giving her alcopops. She would never knowingly drink alcohol. My father slaps him around the head.

I grab Mia and make a timely exit. She declares that “this has been the best Christmas, ever!” It’s certainly been a memorable one.

We get home and there is a letter shoved halfway through the letter box. It’s from Anthony. I open the door. And find a small gift wrapped box on the mat. I pick it up and throw it in the bin; along with the letter. I’ve had quite enough drama for one Christmas.

My cheeks hurt. And I’m not sure I have a single breath left in my body. It is at this exact point that I ask myself the same question every year; why didn’t I buy a bloody balloon pump?

I still have another twenty to blow up. Mia always wakes up to a room full of balloons on her birthday. I take a deep (painful) breath. And continue.

Then Mark calls. He tells me that I sound out of breath and suspiciously asks if he is interrupting something. I don’t like his tone so I respond with “Yes, I’m squeezing in a quick orgy while Mia is asleep”. He is not amused. “Or I could just be blowing up balloons for tomorrow. Will you be meeting us here or at the circus?”

Apparently he won’t be meeting us at all. I ask him why. He doesn’t respond. That means he doesn’t have a good enough answer. I remind him that we had agreed (when we split up) that her birthday was the one day of the year that she should spend with both her parents.

He mutters something about having “other people’s feelings to consider”. I ask him to elaborate. He says “I have to be able to have a life. I can’t plan everything around Mia”.

I point out that he is free to do as he pleases for (at least) twenty six days of the month. Surely he can plan around her for four days a month? And one day a year for her birthday?

Then it hits me “Does your girlfriend have anything to do with this?” He hesitates before confirming that ‘Jade’ is uncomfortable about him being around me because “we have a history”. He claims to be “in a difficult position”. I tell him it’s fairly simple from where I’m standing; his daughter should take priority over his girlfriends’ insecurities.

He says it’s complicated. I tell him I would never put any boyfriend of mine before my daughter. I call him weak and pathetic. Then I hang up. I am incredulous. How can he do that? What if Jade decides she is "uncomfortable" about him seeing Mia altogether because she is clearly a reminder of our "history"? Will he just abandon her?

It would be catastrophic for Mia if she were to be rejected by her father. That would be unforgivable.

Mark calls back. He suggests we alternate; one year with him, one year with me. I say “Her birthday is the day of her birth. Who gave birth to her again? Oh yes, that was me! I intend to spend every birthday with her. You will always have the option to join us, provided you can locate your spine”.

I had to play the birth card. I bloody well earned that right; the whole experience was so painful. And surreal (with comedy interludes).

I’m lying there, legs spread, trying to give birth. And the receptionist keeps opening the door, relaying messages from my family. At one point she comes in and says "your brother wants to know when you’re going to give birth. And quite frankly, I’m getting curious myself". I tell her to fuck off as the midwife ushers her out of the room.

The pain is indescribable. Apparently at one point I get up and try to leave, “I can’t do this now, I’m going home. I’ll come back tomorrow”.

I’m pushing and pushing. But nothing is happening. The midwife tells me I’m not trying hard enough. I scream obscenities at her.

The door opens again. It’s my mother. She is holding a plate of dolma (stuffed vine leaves) “You’ve been in here for a very long time. You must be hungry”. She starts trying to feed me. The midwife takes the plate away from her. She starts crying and screaming “My poor baby is in pain” before she is forcibly removed.

Then Mia’s heart rate slows; the midwife tells me that she is in distress. And if I don’t get her out in the next five minutes they’ll have to use a vontuse. I’ve seen pictures of vontused babies with squashed heads. And I’m not going to let that happen.

I close my eyes, zone out and several pushes later she is out. I look down and say “Mia”. Then realise that she isn’t making a sound. They press an emergency alarm, cut the cord and rush her out of the room.

Mark looks at me helplessly and I say “Go with Mia”. Please god, no. I did everything I was supposed to do. Please let her be ok. The door swings open and this woman comes in with a camera and says "Oh good, you tore" and starts taking pictures of my (not so) private parts (I had agreed she could do it as part of their research earlier).

I’m numb. It feels like an eternity before the door opens and Mark says “That’s Mia crying, she’s fine”. They bring her back in and hand her to me. She is perfect.

We’re admitted into a ward and Mark is sent home. The nurse tells me that I am only to take her out of the cot to feed her then put her straight back in.

I take Mia out of the cot as soon as the nurse pulls the curtain behind her. I put her against my chest. The only thing that will be familiar to her right now is my heartbeat. All night I can hear babies crying while Mia sleeps peacefully on my chest. I stroke her hair. And I’m totally overwhelmed by love.

So I’ll be damned if I’m not going to spend every anniversary of that day with her until she decides she wants to spend it with someone else.

Mia wakes me up at 5am. She wants to show me that she has grown taller (overnight).

She climbs into my bed for morning snuggles. I explain that her daddy won’t be coming to the circus with us. She asks me why, “He is a silly weak man who puts his penis before his daughter” would be the honest answer. But obviously I can’t say that. So I tell her that he has a fear of clowns. She looks disappointed “But can’t we see him after the circus?” I clearly didn’t think that one through.

I have to make the next excuse fool proof “No sweetheart we can’t. The truth is we both love you so much that neither of us wants to share you on your birthday. So we have decided that you are going to have two birthdays every year. One with me. And one with daddy”.

Her little face lights up “Two birthdays?” I tell her “Yes and do you know how special that makes you? Only you and the queen have two birthdays”. She giggles happily.

It’s going to be a wonderful day. I’ll make sure of that. Then I’ll go and throttle her father.

I have been forced to listen to my mother talking at me for some time. Her voice is really starting to reverberate (painfully) inside my head. I tune out for a while. And go to my ‘happy place’. I stay there until I feel calm enough to come back.

Unfortunately, I tune back in just as she is explaining that I have depreciated greatly in value “We can’t be too choosy. You are divorced. You have a child. And you are in your thirties. But you are educated and you have nice breasts; so I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone who would be willing to take you on”. She squeezes my (clenched) hand reassuringly.

I tell her (again) that I do not want them to find me a husband. She responds with “You think we should trust you to find your own? And let you shame us with a Greek? Whatever next? A black man?” I remind her that her best friend is black. But apparently she is “Turkish first. Black second.”

Then she infuriates me further by declaring that they are going to find me a husband whether I like it or not.

I take a deep breath and count to ten. There is only so much self control I can exercise. I firmly repeat that I will not be getting married, petulantly adding “And you can’t make me.”

I can feel myself regressing. My mother has that effect on me. It is all I can do not to stamp my feet.

My father makes an (unsuccessful) attempt to diffuse the situation “We can’t force you to do to anything. All we are asking is that you allow us to introduce you to men we think are good marriage material"

I want to scream. But my voice is hoarse from trying to explain to them that I don’t actually need to have a man (Turkish or otherwise) in my life.

I should probably just save my energy. And pretend to play along. “And if I don’t like any of them? Will you give up and stop going on at me?”

My father agrees. My mother doesn’t. “You’ve always given in to her. Maybe if you had laid her across your knee once in a while, she would have more respect for us now. A man who doesn’t beat his daughter beats his own knee”.

She slams her hand down on the table dramatically. Then she turns to me “You will like one of them”

I’ve had enough. It’s time to put a stop to this. “Actually, I won’t because I have no intention of meeting any of them. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it”.

My mother is fighting a losing battle. And she knows it. The emotional blackmail will come next. I pre-empt it by saying “You look flushed. Has your blood pressure gone up? Perhaps you should go home and measure it. We wouldn’t want you having a stroke now, would we?” I have left her with nothing to say.

But I may have gone too far. She looks puce. I don’t think my mother has a 'happy place' She starts to reach down. I jump up and make a run for it. I manage to pull the door behind me just as her shoe slams into it. She may not be as fast as she used to be. But she still has a pretty good throwing arm.

I have a restless night punctuated with nightmares where I am being chased by hoards of fat, ugly, naked, sweaty, hairy Turks; with my mother running alongside them shouting “Kitty! Stop! We can’t be too choosy!”

I wake up late (and exhausted). The last two days and nights have literally knocked the stuffing out of me. We get to school just as the whistle blows.

The ‘mummy mafia’ stop talking and stare disapprovingly at me as I rush past them. I hear one of them (the ‘Godmother’) say “Why is she always late? She only has one child to get ready”.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t rise to it. I have been ignoring the bitchy looks and snide comments for months.

But then she makes the mistake of smugly adding “And it’s not like she has a husband to worry about, is it?”

I stop. And turn back. “What exactly has my timekeeping got to do with you?” I am right up in her face “Well?” She looks around at her cronies for support. But they are all looking at their feet.

She finally stammers “Nothing. It’s nothing to do with me”. I respond “Precisely. So keep this” (I prod her nose) “out of it in future”. I walk off, leaving her red faced and open mouthed.

I head straight to the gym. And pummel a punch bag until I calm down.

Then I go for a nice long swim. I notice heads turning as I climb out of the pool and walk across to the steam room. I see men (and women) nudging each other and nodding towards me. I must admit, I am in pretty good shape. My body looks toned and lithe in my black bikini.

I come out of the steam room and take another dip in the pool so I can milk it. My battered ego needs feeding. I climb slowly out of the pool (I imagine I am Ursula Andress in that iconic ‘rising out of the sea’ scene).

I modestly pretend not to notice the attention I am attracting.

I feel revitalised. Maria is welcome to Anthony; I haven’t depreciated in value at all; and I can compete with a pre-pubescent blonde button nosed model without getting a facelift.

I walk into the changing room; straight towards the full length mirror. And that’s when I see it. My tampon string swinging between my legs; a long white cotton reminder that pride (almost) always comes before a fall.

I get home to find a strange little man waiting on the doorstep. He looks Turkish. Apparently he is here to carry out a valuation of the house. I have to hand it to her, she is being very imaginative. But I am not a total idiot. I tell him I know that my mother sent him. And that I am sure he is a nice man. But I am simply not interested in a relationship with anyone right now.

He seems genuinely confused. And on closer inspection, he looks more Indian than Turkish (I think it was the moustache that threw me).

He wasn’t sent by my mother. He was sent by the bank. The mortgage is in arrears. I insist it isn’t. Then I call Mark. It is. It would appear that he has neglected to tell me that his company is in trouble. And that he has defaulted on the mortgage.

There can only be one (il)logical explanation for the events of the past 48 hours; someone has put the evil eye on me.

I go inside and light up the remainder of the olive leaves and circle my head with them “your eyes to your arses, your eyes to your arses”

My entire body aches. I must have slept awkwardly. I try to move. But I feel (too) heavy. Then I realise why. Mia slept with (or rather, on) me last night. I gently move her off my back. And turn my phone on. Forty missed calls from Anthony. I delete his voicemails (without listening to them).

I scroll through deleting his texts. Then I notice one from Mark (my ex-husband) “thought I should just let you know that I introduced Mia to a girl I’ve been seeing”. This is the first time he has done that. And I am strangely unsettled by it.

I ask Mia if anything interesting happened over the weekend. All she will say is “I met Daddy’s friend. She has blonde hair”. I am desperate to know more. But do not pry any further.

I make discreet enquiries through a mutual friend. She tells me that he is dating his blonde ex-catalogue model of a receptionist.

Model? She is probably very pretty; all button nose and blonde hair. I feel a little deflated. Why does the word ‘model’ have that effect on me? Even with the word ‘catalogue’ in front of it?

Mark always said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He talked me out of having the nose job I’d been planning for years. I said it was big. He said it was strong. And part of my heritage.

I conceded that there were very few Cypriots with little button noses. He said he didn’t like button noses. Or blondes for that matter. And now he is with a blonde button nosed ex-model.

What if she is there the next time I drop Mia off? That only gives me two weeks to get used to the idea. He called her a ‘girl’. What if she is (a lot) younger than me? I look in the mirror. And I swear I look older than I did yesterday.

I persuade Mia to watch Stardust again. I need a moral reminder of why it is not good to want to remain forever young. Instead I find myself thinking “Is it really such a terrible thing to rip out the heart of a fallen star and devour it for eternal youth?” I turn it off. I am a very bad person.

What on earth is wrong with me? Is this purely my ego? Or do I still have feelings for Mark?

I am saved from further analysis by the doorbell. It’s my parents. My mother walks in clutching a handful of dried olive leaves. She sets them alight. Then she blows the flames out and circles the olive leaves around Mia’s head, wafting the smoke towards her face and muttering “Your eyes to your arses, your eyes to your arses”.

Something is clearly lost in translation because (bizarrely) it sounds normal in Turkish.

Mia stays perfectly still “Mummy, what is nene (grandma) doing?” “I am protecting you from evil eyes” responds my mother (as if it is the most natural thing in the world).

Apparently someone put the evil eye on Mia. And that is how she ended up with the chick pea in her ear. Luckily I taught Mia not to take her crazy ramblings seriously. She giggles as I roll my eyes.

Then I notice my father looking sadly around at my minimalist (Philippe Starck) furniture “You should have told me you didn’t have enough money to buy a proper three piece suite.” He takes out his wallet “How much do you need?“

The doorbell rings again. My mother beats me to the door. It’s Anthony. His arm is in a sling. And he is holding a huge bunch of flowers.

She looks at me suspiciously “Who is he?” He responds before I do “I’m the flower delivery.....man” and thrusts the flowers at her. He turns to leave. She stares after him. Then calls out, “Wait!” I hold my breath. “I can’t believe they are making you work with a broken arm”. He claims it is “only a sprained wrist”. There is probably nothing wrong with it at all. It’s just a cheap ploy to get sympathy.

It works (on my mother), “Oh you poor thing. Where are you from? You look Turkish”. He admits to being Greek Cypriot. She invites him in for some of her Cypriot vegetable and lamb soup. He tries to refuse. But she won’t take no for an answer.

I am tense (to say the least). My father talks to him in Greek. My mother brings him soup. He makes (over the top) appreciative noises as he eats. She asks him (smugly) if his wife’s soup is as good as hers. He says he isn’t married.

Then adds (whilst looking at me) “There is a woman I would love to marry. But her parents wouldn’t approve of me” My mother nods sympathetically “It is because you have a crap job. Why are you still a delivery boy at your age?”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. She peers intently at him “Hmm...your eyes are a little too close together. Are you a bit slow? Is there something wrong with your brain?” She illustrates this by tapping the side of her head and scrunching up her face.

She isn’t trying to be rude. My mother simply has no tact or a single politically correct bone in her entire body. She takes his lack of response as affirmation; shaking her head as she tuts, “You should forget about marriage”. Then she shrugs “Eh. What can you do?” and offers him more soup.

He looks across at me “Do you think she would want to marry me?” I am so incensed by his nerve that I respond (venomously) without thinking “She wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, let alone marry you!”

All three of them are taken aback by my outburst. My mother breaks the silence “You know this woman?” I try to sound casual “No. But I know his type” He responds (too emphatically) “You have me all wrong, you really do”. I glare angrily at him. I don’t trust myself to speak.

My father looks from me to him. And back again. Then he whips Anthony’s plate away (while he is still eating) “Well, we mustn’t keep you. Off you go”. He is still holding the spoon as my father practically hauls him out of the chair and pushes him out of the door.

Then he suggests I go outside (to the garden) with him to` keep him company’ while he smokes. I think I know what’s coming. And I’m right. He looks me straight in the eye and asks “Is it finished between you and that Greek?” I realised some time ago that it is utterly pointless trying to lie to my father. “Yes” I say “It is”. Then “Please don’t tell mum.”

But it’s too late. She has been hanging out of the window behind us (eavesdropping) “You were with that Greek? Aman AllahIm (oh my god)!”

We go back inside and help her get down from the window. She is hysterical “A Greek ! I will die of the shame! Is that what you want? To kill me?” My father tells her to calm down. She turns on him “This is all your fault. You told me not to interfere. Do you see what happens when I don’t interfere? Now do you agree that we should get involved?” He (reluctantly) nods.

She (immediately) calms down. And adopts a worryingly sweet tone, “Sweetheart, we have let you try it your way. We think you should try it our way now. Let’s face it; you’re not getting any younger are you? And if the best you can do is a Greek retard then you obviously need our help”. They exchange glances. “It is time for us to find you a nice Turkish husband”

Somebody shoot me. Please.