Kitty Tells It As It Is

Sticks & Stones

2011-12-28T22:04:00.027Z

Matthew’s one line message “I hear you’re looking for me” accompanied only by a telephone number is confident, playful and endearingly succinct.

But who the hell is he?

He certainly looks fit from behind; in his profile photo he’s walking away from the camera holding hands with two small children.

Then I notice we have a mutual friend in Melissa. She saw the tongue in cheek request I posted on my wall and decided to do a little match making.

Matthew is 40, ex-military, recently divorced with two children aged eight and three. She assures me he’s as attractive from the front as he is from the back and, as far as she knows, he’s free of ‘issues’.

I’m not sure about that. The man is ex-military and recently divorced. Surely he’s riddled with issues?

Then she mentions that he lives over two hundred miles away in a village that is very middle England.

And that immediately and inexplicably makes him very attractive. I send him a casual response.

He asks me to have dinner with him. I’m mulling over whether or not to accept when my mother phones.

“I had a dream last night”.

That’s always been my mother’s way of seeking confirmation for something she either already knows or strongly suspects.

I used to think she was a witch when I was younger because her ‘dreams’ were always so frighteningly accurate.

I was ten when she told me she had a dream that I used my father's razor and cut myself;

I developed embarrassingly early. So I always held a towel around myself when I got changed for swimming.

But I had accidentally dropped my towel that morning. I was so mortified that instead of picking it back up, I just froze to the spot.

They gawped at me as the room slowly fell silent. Then they started chanting “Kitty has a hairy fanny”.

That in itself may not have been quite so terrible but as the only ‘ethnic’ child in the entire school, I was already considered a freak.

My father and I had walked in through the gates on my first day and almost immediately, a boy ran up to me, shouted ‘paki’ then spat in my face.

I remember waiting for my big, strong, father to give him a clip around the ear.

Instead he pulled out a pristine white (ironed) handkerchief, bent down, wiped my face, whispered to me to stop crying and told me to hold my head up high as we continued to walk on.

And I had been holding my tears in and my head up ever since.

But my clumsy hands had just undone all those years of effort in the space of a few minutes! I could feel the hot tears running down my face as I hung my head.

I went home, tried to (dry) shave it off and cut myself quite badly in the process. It didn’t occur to me that the bloodied razor and towel I left in the bathroom had given me away.

My mother cleaned the cut and put a plaster on it, telling me that “being hairy is the price we pay for having beautiful olive skin”.

I still repeat that mantra to myself at my fortnightly almost-all-over-body waxing treatments.

I take a deep breath and ask my mother what her dream was about. “I dreamt you’d split up with Jake”. My sister must have told her. “Well, did you?”

“Yes”. She tries to make me feel better by telling me a story about a single mother her friend knows who also had a relationship with a 'much younger' man.

He finally ran off with her sixteen year old daughter. "That could have happened to you in six years time so it's lucky you split up now really isn't it?"

Then she asks me if I'm ok. I tell her I'm fine. She's not convinced, "Have you lost weight?"

I always lose weight when I’m unhappy.

It’s not deliberate. It just feels like I have a permanent lump in my throat and I can’t get any food past it.

She invites me to spend the weekend with them while Mia is with her father.

I have visions of being tied to a chair and continuously force fed whilst being made to watch one diabolical Turkish soap after another.

Thank god I’ve already made plans with Charlie. I haven’t seen him for over a year but we effortlessly pick up where we left off (in a way that you can only do with very old friends).

We met in the Union bar in our first week at University when he asked me for a toke of my spliff. He was cute so I shared the rest of my stash with him.

That was almost twenty years ago. And we’ve sinced moved on to sharing bottles of fine wine over dinner in our favourite French restaurant.

But some things never change; by the time we get to dessert, we’re ruthlessly analysing each other’s unsuccessful love lives.

I tell Charlie his problem is that he’s only attracted to women who are unhinged in some way.

He prefers to call them ‘kooky’ but concedes that a few of them have crossed over the line into ‘deranged’.

I helpfully point out that he has a sub-conscious fear of commitment which is why he chooses women that it’s impossible to commit to.

He retaliates by reminding me that my only significant relationships since my divorce have been with a Greek Cypriot and a man almost thirteen years my junior.

I concede that they were unfortunate choices. But insist that I do not have a fear of commitment, sub-consciously or otherwise. And to prove my point, I text Matthew and accept his offer of dinner.

Then I remember that I only got really excited about him when I realised that he lived over two hundred miles away.

I decide not to mention that to Charlie.

All Cried Out

2011-12-14T18:50:00.035Z

It’s been two weeks since Jake left me in the middle of the ocean. And I think my life jacket is faulty. It’s not keeping me afloat. I’m afraid I may drown (in my own tears).

Then he throws me a rubber ring...

Oh God. I’m making myself cringe. I really shouldn’t write when I’m feeling emotional.

But I simply have to write. And I have no idea when I’ll stop feeling emotional. So I’ll start again without the analogies and just tell it as it is; I still feel like crap.

Then he sends me a text...

I’ve always loved you. I always will. Who I am now (the best bits – the worst bits are my own doing) I owe more to you than anyone. I want to live my whole life with the integrity, passion and ability to love that you’ve always shown. I’m not good with tragedy; sorry I dealt with this all badly. You always deserve the very best.

...and I accelerate through the five stages of dealing with loss;

He’s taking the first step towards trying to change my mind (denial).

He’s right – he did deal with it all very badly (anger).

Maybe he’ll agree to stay in London if I agree to a possible move overseas in the future? (bargaining).

That won’t happen. I’ll never be happy again (depression).

It’s over (acceptance).

His carefully chosen words are so thoughtful, so poetic, and so utterly lovely that I decide to copy them into my notebook so I can keep them forever.

Mia will be home soon. I have a shower, style my hair and put on my make-up; I’m ready for some (retail) therapy.

I’m pleasantly surprised to find I’m attracting a lot of attention. Perhaps I never noticed before because I wasn’t available? Mia dismisses my theory “No mother, it’s your nipples”.

My ten year old daughter has just reduced my entire appeal to a pair of nipples!

She denies it, “It’s your nipples that get their attention and then they look at your face and realise that you’re pretty.”

She pauses then deadpans “Maybe you shouldn’t wear a white top when it’s cold”.

She makes me laugh all afternoon. And I go to bed feeling wildly euphoric! But I wake up feeling incredibly flat.

I remain upbeat until I drop Mia off at school. Then I go to the gym and pound the treadmill to clear my mind of Jake related thoughts.

It works. And I can’t help but notice Roberto pumping weights through the mirror. He’s probably the closest thing to physical perfection I’ve ever seen.

My jaw literally dropped the first time I laid eyes on him (shortly after my divorce). He noticed me too and things got pretty hot in the steam room one afternoon.

The physical side of it was incredible. Then after a few weeks (yes, it was that good), I tried to have a proper conversation with him.

It wasn’t easy. His vocabulary was somewhat limited. And my attraction to him waned rapidly.

I notice that he’s smouldering in my direction. Didn’t someone once say that the quickest way to get over someone is to get under someone else?

I start thinking about our encounter in the steam room.

This proves to be somewhat distracting; I trip over my own feet, land on my face and slide off the (fast) moving treadmill in a most undignified manner.

I take it as a sign that I shouldn't sleep with Roberto.

I go home and spend hours frantically cleaning instead. Then my new washing machine arrives.

And it's only when the delivery guy gives me a little pep talk before he leaves that I realise I’ve been (silently) crying the whole time.

I think I’m re-visiting the depression stage of loss.

There’s nothing left to clean. But I have to keep myself busy so I go to Sainsbury’s. I put a few things in my trolley then leave it at the bottom of the aisle while I get some fruit.

It’s gone when I get back. Someone has stolen it! How bloody rude! And it’s got my pound in it!

It doesn’t take me too long to spot the culprit; my trolley is one of the smaller ones and there aren’t a lot of people in the supermarket.

I march over and physically move her out of the way. I’m so furious that I don’t trust myself to speak.

I empty the trolley until I find my things at the bottom. I point at them indignantly. I don't know why she's looking so freaked out. She’s lucky I've managed to remain calm.

I walk off with my trolley.

Several aisles later it occurs to me that pushing her out of the way, throwing her shopping on the floor then pointing at my things without uttering a single word was probably somewhat disconcerting. And not at all calm.

It would appear that I’m not quite done with the anger stage of loss yet either.

I miss him so much. He’s left a huge empty space in my life. I read his text over and over again, sighing tearfully to myself.

But somewhere around the fifth read I start to find it a little patronising.

By the tenth read, I’m absolutely furious (and dry eyed). I’m dying here and he sends me a cliché ridden text? Four years of my life and all I get is a poxy, patronising text?

Shit. I’m starting to sound bitter. And that's not who I am.

But it’s enough of a shock to bring me to my senses; I do not want to become an angry, bitter, lonely old lady who spends my days rocking in a chair with a cat sitting on my head.

It’s time to move on. I post a light hearted request on my face book wall;

I would like to meet a man who is attractive, kind, funny, fit, patient, loyal, aged 35-45, preferably with child(ren) of his own and without ‘issues’. I’m not holding my breath.

Then (several days later) a message lands in my inbox ‘I hear you’re looking for me’.

Don't Speak

2011-11-29T17:38:00.044Z

I have a confession to make.

I haven’t been writing this blog in real time. But I can bring you up to speed pretty easily. My mother is still insane. Mia is still the centre of my world.

And I'm completely and utterly heartbroken.

I took a calculated risk when I decided to get involved with a man exactly twelve years and eleven months my junior.

I gave it six months.

It was supposed to be a fling. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him. He wasn’t supposed to become my best friend.

I tried to end it on more than one occasion. But he stopped me every time. He kissed my fears away.

He told me I was the most beautiful, complicated woman he’d ever met. And that we’d always be together.

So I overcame my fear of water and climbed into a small boat with him. And I trusted him enough to let him row us to the middle of the ocean.

We made it to four years.

Then he just dived into the sea and swam off. And I’m not sure I can find my way back without him.

I feel so lost.

If only I’d known that our trip this summer was going to be our last. I would have cherished waking up with him every morning.

It could have been our beautiful long goodbye.

Instead I quietly obsess about the way the sun highlights the lines on my face. And I become moody and withdrawn.

I can’t keep competing with girls half my age. It’s exhausting. And expensive; dracula therapy and bull semen don’t come cheap.

I’m so wrapped up in my own unhappiness that it takes me a while to notice Jake has become distant.

Then everything starts to unravel ridiculously quickly.

“This isn’t working is it Jake?” There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. He finally speaks. And it all comes tumbling out.

He’s been struggling with it for the last few months. His life’s changed. His career’s taking off. There are new paths opening up for him. He wants to move overseas when he qualifies. He wants to raise a family.

And it’s clear that there’s absolutely no place for me in his future.

But he can’t let me go. He’s confused. He asks for more time to decide what he wants.

It feels like a stay of execution.

I barely eat for days. I have one sleepless night after another. I feel sick and totally detached from everything around me.

I'm driving home when No Doubt’s 'Don't Speak' comes on the radio. 'I really feel that I’m losing my best friend, I can’t believe this could be the end’.

By the time it gets to ‘It’s all ending, I gotta stop pretending who we are. You and me I can see us dying...are we?’ I have to pull over because I can't see through my tears.

This is killing me. I can’t wait for him to make a decision. I send him an email.

I love you sweetheart, I always will but sometimes all the love in the world isn't enough to make a relationship work. And our relationship has run its course. We both know that. You taught me that I could climb a mountain. I'll never forget that. And I’ll never forget you. Goodbye Jake.

He calls immediately. I don't pick up. Everything feels so surreal. I knew this was going to happen. But I still can't believe it. He sends me a text 'I'm seeing you on Friday – whether you like it or not'.

He arrives Friday evening looking tired and sad. His eyes fill up as he tells me he's not strong enough to deal with this right now.

I hug him. Then we kiss, slowly at first then passionately, desperately. We make love all night. We both know this might be the last time. I try to submit every touch, every kiss to memory.

I wake up in his arms in the morning. I ask him how he feels now. He tells me he’s still confused. He still doesn’t know if he wants to be with me.

And that stings like hell. I had thought, for one moment, that perhaps we could find a way to make it work.

That’s when I finally realise the blindingly obvious; there’s always been a part of me that believed this would last. I honestly thought we could defy the odds and stay together.

How utterly bloody stupid of me. And Demi. But at least she gets to hate Ashton because he cheated on her. At least she gets to be angry because he behaved like a total prick.

All Jake has done is what I always said he would do; he has grown up.

I gather all his things together and put them in a bag. I give it to him and ask him to leave. I refuse to exist in a state of limbo.

This is the first time I’m breaking up with someone I’m still in love with. And it's unbearably sad.

We’re both crying as he tells me how much he loves me. How certain he is that he’ll never meet anyone like me again. But he doesn’t try to stop me ending it this time.

He knows it’s the right thing to do. He just didn’t have the strength to do it.

I watch him dive into the ocean. And I can only hope I have enough strength left to find my way back safely.

Then I remember that I got into the boat wearing a life jacket....

Tour du Mont Blanc - Part Three

2010-12-17T11:12:00.013Z

I sneak off to have a shower while everyone else is eating. My cunning plan pays off and the water stays gloriously hot.

But my happiness is short lived; we’re going to spend the night in a room with six other people.

The beds are tiny. And there isn’t much space between each one. I wait until Jake goes to the bathroom. Then I pop a couple of caffeine pills.

My roommates appear normal enough. But that means nothing. The worst serial killers in history looked like the guy next door.

I slow down my breathing and pretend to be asleep.

They all fall asleep pretty quickly. And the room reverberates with a symphony of snoring. I put my iPod on and sit up. I’m not stupid. I may not be able to hear them coming towards me now. But I’ll certainly be able to see them.

I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. Then I realise that my heart is beating really fast. This makes me anxious; which makes my heart beat faster.

It occurs to me that perhaps I should have just taken the one pill. I don’t drink coffee or fizzy drinks. And I rarely eat chocolate.

Therefore my body isn’t used to caffeine.I check the packet. I now have 400mg of it swimming around my body.

I remind myself why I took them in the first place; to stay awake and stop people stealing my belongings/masturbating over my feet/murdering me.

There’s nothing I can do about it now but ride it out.I try to steady my breathing and get my heart rate to slow down.

Then I get an unsettling feeling of déjà vu; closely followed by a vivid flashback to the early nineties when I popped an ecstasy pill for the first (and last) time.

I didn’t realise it took around thirty minutes to kick in. So I’d actually forgotten I’d taken it until my heart suddenly felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.

Apparently that point when you think you’re going to have a heart attack is the best bit.

I spent the next twelve hours curled up in a ball muttering “don’t like it, don’t like it, don’t like it”.

And I don’t like this caffeine buzz much either.

I turn my iPod up to try and drown out the sound of my thumping heart. It works. I can't hear it anymore but I can still feel it. I start pacing up and down the room.

Then I lie down (curled up in a ball). Then I sit up. Then I pace.

I manically continue the same process for the next seven hours while everyone else sleeps soundly. I’m starting to think that there isn’t one thief, rapist or murderer amongst them.

Or it could be that my constant state of alertness has thwarted their plans. I decide to go with that otherwise I’ll have put myself through this for no good reason at all.

I’m still jittery at breakfast. Jake looks concerned “Did you manage to get any sleep?” I tell him I slept like a log. Then I realise that my hand is shaking. And I’m spilling tea everywhere.

I’m still buzzing so we make really good time on the ascent. Then we get hit by sleet. And I start coming down from my caffeine high.

The sleet turns into snow; lots of snow that settles really quickly.

There isn't any shelter so we have no choice but to continue our descent (from around 2000 metres).

We’re on steep, rocky terrain which is dangerously slippery. Did I mention this is my first proper hike? I’m absolutely terrified.

I also have a thumping headache and an overwhelming urge to just say “Fuck hypothermia” and find somewhere to lie down.

But I don’t really want to die. So I start to (very) slowly follow Jake down. I’m so relieved when it stops snowing.

Then it starts raining really heavily. The descent should take four hours. It takes me seven. And it rains heavily the whole time. I am completely soaked through.

There is absolutely no way I’m staying in a bloody tent tonight. I demand to stay in the first hotel I see.

We walk in and immediately create a huge puddle in the lobby.

The concierge tells us they’re fully booked. I know he’s lying from the way he’s looking down his nose at us. There’s no point arguing though. So I shake myself like a dog (in his direction) before we leave.

We try every hotel and refuge we see. Every single one is fully booked. It’s late in the day and the weather is so bad that anyone intending to camp has decamped to hotels and refuges.

I am cold, wet, hungry and tired. Somehow I’m managing to hold it together. But I can feel the mother of all tantrums coming on...

Tour du Mont Blanc - Part Two

2010-12-03T18:29:00.015Z

I’m confused.

I can understand raclette being one of only two dishes available on Switzerland’s National Day but chicken curry? That makes no sense at all.

Unfortunately, neither option is appealing. Curry does very little for me and I’m not keen on eating a lump of grilled cheese.

But I’m starving and this is the only restaurant open in the vicinity.

A cursory glance around me confirms that all the other diners have opted for the traditional raclette; which explains the unappetising aroma of smelly feet.

I decide to risk the curry. The rice is bland and the chicken is rubbery. Bad food really upsets me.

I’m even more upset when the bill arrives; that boil in the bag excuse for a curry cost me twenty pounds! I’m tempted to refuse. Then I realise I should have asked how much it was before I ordered it.

I also realise that having a curry and sleeping in a small tent with your (relatively new) boyfriend probably isn’t a very good idea.

Luckily I’m too tired to care. I desperately want to sleep. But it feels odd being fully clothed. And the level of effort required to toss and turn until I find a comfortable position is ridiculous.

I really don’t like the sensation of being restricted by the sleeping bag. How am I supposed to move quickly in the event of an emergency? What’s to stop some lunatic from setting our tent on fire? We wouldn’t stand a chance; we’d be frazzled.

I lean into my bag and pull out Mia’s Little Teddy. She gave him to me before I left “just in case you need hugs mummy”.

I close my eyes and try really hard to sleep. I’m finally about to drift off. Then I realise that my breathing is becoming quite laboured. I shake Jake awake, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe”.

He unzips the tent – then points out that the tent has a ventilation panel. I’m still not convinced that I won’t suffocate.

I lie with my head outside the tent. At least this way I have a higher chance of survival in the event of an arson attack. Unless they set my hair on fire. Or stamp on my head.

I exhaust myself with one horrific thought after another until I eventually fall asleep.

My hair is damp from condensation when I wake up. I’m cold, wet and smelly. I sleepily make my way over to the shower block.

I make the mistake of looking in the mirror. I have incredibly puffy eyes. And my skin is blotchy. I rummage through my bag. Shit. I’ve forgotten my Talika eye therapy patches. It’ll take hours for the puffiness to subside without them.

Then I remember that I have sunglasses. And that they’re big enough to obscure half my face. Panic over.

Thankfully the shower is hot. And it stays that way for almost a whole minute. Then it’s ice cold. Cold water is supposed to be great for toning. I keep reminding myself of that as I shiver my sore arse off.

The woman in the cubicle next to me is making the whole experience even more unpleasant with her rasping cough.

And she makes the most awful noise when she gathers up the flem in her throat before spitting it out.

This means I have to stand on my tip-toes and watch the floor for any signs of floating flem; which makes washing my hair more difficult than it needs to be. And in turn makes me colder for longer.

I decide I really don't like this woman. Then she starts singing (loudly and off-key). This is possibly the worst shower experience of my entire life.

Thank god it’s over. I wrap myself in a towel and try to get dressed as quickly as possible.

The other cubicle door opens. I turn around, curious to see what this tone-deaf-gruff-sounding-flem-spitting-50-fags-a-day-woman looks like.

‘She’ is a man. A large naked man. We stare at each other for an uncomfortably long time.

I must say something to break the awkward silence “Brrr...it’s so cold isn’t it?” Shit. I involuntarily looked at his (very) small willy when I said that.

He quickly covers himself with a towel and disappears back into the cubicle.

I do feel a little (no pun intended) bad. But what exactly was he doing in the women’s shower room? And why did he come out stark bollock naked? Is he some kind of pervert?

Then another man walks in. And I realise I’m in the men’s shower room. Oh. I hurry back to the tent.

Jake drains my blisters and wraps up my toes. I strap the backpack across my bruised hips and we set off.

The pain really kicks in around the half-way mark. But I am determined to walk through it. And I’m doing quite well. Then last night’s curry starts making strange noises in my tummy.

I ask Jake how close we are to a bathroom. He checks the map. There isn’t one until we get to the refuge (which is at least two hours away).

There’s no way I can wait that long. He suggests I use my She-wee. I tell him I can’t. He asks me why. I tell him the clue is in the name. He looks confused.

I lose my patience (and my decorum) “I don’t need to wee Jake! I need to poo and I need to do it soon!”

He finds a relatively secluded area and digs a small hole. Then he keeps a look-out as I crouch over it. Oh the indignity of it all.

We’re still in the honeymoon period of our relationship. So I’ve been very careful not to fart, burp or do anything remotely unladylike in his presence. Now I’m (loudly) pooping into a hole with my trousers around my ankles.

I’m very subdued as we continue our ascent. We stop for a break and Jake pushes my hat back to kiss me. I pull it back down.

“No! I don’t want you to see my puffy eyes and my blotchy skin. It’s bad enough that you had to drain my ugly blisters, not to mention listen to me doing something in the woods that only bears should do. And I’m not a bear!”

He has a smile playing on his lips. I can tell he’s trying really hard not to laugh at me “No you’re not.”

He pulls off my hat, removes my sunglasses and plants gentle kisses all over my face “You’re beautiful and your blisters are cute”. I tell him he’s a liar “Ok. Your blisters aren’t cute but your feet are”.

I ask him if the bear in the woods incident has made me less sexy. “No..... but you did fart a lot in your sleep last night and that was kind of off-putting”.

I’m mortified.

Then he bursts out laughing. “I’m only joking!” His laughter is contagious. He pulls me towards him “Now stop being so silly and kiss me”. I do exactly as I’m told.

Then I eat lots of chocolate and the sugar rush lasts long enough to get me to the 2,500 metre Grand Col de Ferret. I feel a real sense of achievement as I happily pose for a photo with Little Teddy.

We’re about to enter my favourite country, Italy. And we’re going to spend the night in a dry refuge instead of a damp tent. Surely things couldn’t get any better?

No but as it turned out, they could certainly get a lot worse...

Tour du Mont Blanc - Part One

2010-09-25T20:03:00.023+01:00

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?

it's nothing but a number

2010-06-14T12:44:00.009+01:00

I jump up and down on the sofa while Mia hugs the TV.

“Mia, can you hear anything?” She listens intently before shaking her head.

"Neither can I sweetheart. Isn't that wonderful?" She tells me I'm being weird then goes back to hugging the TV.

It's blissfully quiet. I had almost forgotten the wonderful sound of silence; it feels so good to be home.

Then the doorbell rings. Bollocks.

Alison walks in brandishing a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine “Welcome back!” She pushes her daughter Megan towards the living room “Go and play with Mia”.

Then she gives me a big hug “I’ve missed you so much”. How strange. We’re not exactly close. We’re simply neighbours who exchange pleasantries over the garden fence occasionally.

And we haven’t even done that since she drunkenly flashed her breasts at me. Perhaps she thinks that incident forged some kind of friendship between us.

“I love your hair! It really suits you and it’s so shiny”. She starts stroking my hair.

Her over familiarity is very unsettling. I move my head out of reach "How did you know we were coming back today?"

She hesitates for too long before answering “I didn’t. I saw your car in the drive when I got home”.

She seems a little twitchy and nervous. I hope she isn’t going to expose herself to me again.

I lean in as she speaks so I can discreetly check her breath for alcohol.

Then she asks if she can use the bathroom before rushing off upstairs “We’ve been out all day and I’m a bit desperate”.

There is something very odd about her behaviour. And I intend to get to the bottom of it.

I turn to Megan “Have you been somewhere nice today?” She shakes her head. Apparently they’ve been at home all morning waiting for us to come back.

Alarm bells start to ring;

How did Alison know we were due back today? Why did she lie to me about being out all day?

Why is she so desperate for the toilet when she has two of her own? And why go to the one upstairs when the one downstairs is closer? I tiptoe slowly up the stairs.

The bathroom door is open; she isn’t in there.

I find her in my bedroom on her hands and knees looking under my bed. I watch as she retreives a red bra which does not belong to me “What are you doing?”

She looks up startled “Don’t judge me!” I tell her that I’m not interested in judging her but I am interested in how her bra came to be under my bed.

She bursts into tears and starts telling me how unhappy her marriage is. I cut her short “I just want to know why your bra is in my bedroom”.

Apparently she had a fling with one of my builders “and you had sex in my bed?” I am incredulous.

“I knew you’d judge me! You don’t understand what it’s like to be in a loveless marriage”. I tell her that I don’t give a shit about her cheating on her husband. But I am very upset that she did it in my bed.

Then I realise that if she hadn’t forgotten her bra, I would never have found out and I would have slept in those sheets. That is so disgusting.

She is still babbling on about her unhappy marriage as I strip the bed.

And she is getting progressively louder and more hysterical “We haven’t had sex for over a year! What was I supposed to do? He won’t even touch me”

I tell her to keep her voice down and remind her that her daughter is downstairs.She eventually calms down. And asks me what she should do.

Ordinarily I would be a little more sympathetic to her plight but her lack of respect has really pissed me off. So I suggest she splashes some cold water on her face before she leaves.

I’m still fuming when Mia and I join the rest of the family at a Turkish restaurant to celebrate my brother’s birthday.

I have a quick flick through the menu and opt for something other than the usual shish kebab. But I’m not sure of the correct Turkish pronunciation for the dish that I want.

And I know that they will laugh at me if I get it wrong. It’s bad enough that I speak Turkish with an English accent.

So I play it safe and order it by number “Otuz bir (31)”. My mother looks horrified “You can’t say that”. “What? 31?” She apologises to the waiter who is looking a little flushed “She doesn’t know what she’s saying”.

I don’t understand “Why can’t I say 31?!” Then I realise that a hush has descended over the restaurant. And everyone seems to be staring at me.

The silence is broken by Ayse and Melek’s hysterical laughter.

Apparently 31 in Turkish is slang for male masturbation which effectively means that I ordered a wank.

I look around the table “Does everybody know about this?” They nod. Ayse splutters “I think you must be the only one that doesn’t” before cracking up again.

I suppose that makes sense because I don’t really mix in the community; the only Turkish people I spend any time with is my family. And it’s not really a topic of conversation that would ever come up.

“But why 31? Ours must be the only language in the world where a number means that. The number 13 would work better as the 3 could represent the hand” I start to illustrate what I mean.

My mother slaps my hand “Stop it, you’re making it worse”. But my curiosity has been aroused “Can anybody tell me why it’s called 31?” No. It just is. I try to let it go.

Then I find myself lying in bed still mulling it over. 69 I get, its’ meaning is clearly represented by the shape of the numbers. But I just don’t get 31.

It’s so random. There is no logic to it at all. It is yet another one of those inexplicable Turkishisms that I can file away along with the six month henna party and their unique approach to puberty;

When a child is six months old, the whole family gather together and the poor child has a lump of henna tied to one foot and one hand with pieces of silk whilst prayers are read from the Koran.

Then a wicker tray full of peanuts is passed around, each person throws in money and takes out a handful of peanuts in return (which makes them the most expensive peanuts you’ll ever eat).

The henna is kept on overnight before being removed, leaving the child with two orange splodges.

My mother insisted that I had to do that with Mia. And I agreed on condition that she could explain its meaning to me. She couldn’t “It’s just something we’ve always done”.

She had also used the exact same words to justify her bizarre reaction when I started my period;

I knew absolutely nothing about periods so when I started shortly before my eleventh birthday I thought I was dying. It took two full days and nights of constant worry before I confided in my mother.

Her reaction was to slap me hard across the face (as dictated by tradition) before bursting into tears and hugging me until I couldn’t breathe.

It was confusing to say the least.

But back to this whole number 31 thing – is there anyone out there who can shed some light on it for me?

taking the bull by the horns

2010-05-30T17:14:00.014+01:00

I suspect they offer generous staff discounts.

Her face is completely unlined; almost wax like. And I am morbidly fascinated by her over-inflated lips.

I think she is trying to smile at me but it’s difficult to tell. “I can see why you would want your nose fixed. It’s not very straight is it? You should also consider upper eyelid surgery; it would make you look less tired”.

Admittedly my eyelids have always been a little heavy but I’ve never really had a problem with that. She hands me a mirror then pulls my eyelids up to demonstrate how much more ‘awake’ I would look. And I find myself murmuring in agreement.

Then she says “Can I see your breasts? You could probably benefit from an up-lift too”. I fold my arms protectively across my chest and tell her that I quite like my breasts thank you very much.

She goes on to suggest liposuction on my bottom “to trim it down a little”. This really is too much. “I’m Mediterranean. I’m supposed to have a decent sized arse. Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?”

Apparently she is merely encouraging me to take advantage of this month’s special offer; three surgical procedures for the price of two. Now I understand. She’s a salesperson wearing a nurse’s uniform.

“Hmmm..three for two offers are hard to refuse”. Her face twitches slightly, she is trying to smile at me again “Excellent. I’ll get the paperwork”.

I tell her I hadn’t finished “It’s hard to refuse the offer in a supermarket but much easier when it comes to putting my life at risk with unnecessary surgery”.

Another slight twitch, I think it’s a frown this time “I really am only interested in the rhinoplasty. When can I speak to the surgeon?”

She hands me a booking form and pen. “Just as soon as we have you booked in – when is good for you? We require a fifty percent deposit”.

I thank her for her time as I’m walking out. She follows me all the way to the door, trying to persuade me to sign the booking form.

I ask her how many people she has pressured into signing up for potentially life threatening surgery that they don’t actually need. It’s appalling how she plays on your insecurities.

Fortunately for me my intelligence outweighs my insecurity. I make a mental note to report the clinic to the GMC.

Then I walk further down Harley Street to see a surgeon recommended by a friend. His client base is all through word of mouth (not advertisements on the underground). And my consultation is with the actual surgeon.

I explain that I would like a nose job to straighten my nose and make it less prominent. He studies my face for a moment. “Your nose fits your face perfectly. I wouldn’t recommend rhinoplasty unless you absolutely needed it. It’s the most complicated facial surgery and the risk factors are high”.

I ask him about my upper eyelids. He smiles kindly at me “I wouldn’t touch them for at least another ten to fifteen years”. I want to know if there is anything else I can have done now to make me look pretty.

He laughs “No! You don’t need anything. You are a very attractive woman and you have fantastic bone structure, just think yourself lucky”.

I remember that he also works for the NHS carrying out reconstructive surgery. And I leave the clinic feeling incredibly silly.

What on earth has happened to me? Since when did I decide it was worth risking my life and leaving Mia motherless for the sake of vanity?

I decide to scrap Plan A; I am most definitely not going to undergo any invasive surgical procedures.

But there is absolutely no harm in trying non-invasive natural alternatives that carry no risk at all right? And apparently Dracula Therapy is the hottest thing in anti-aging right now. It’s also my Plan B.

I have already done all the research but I listen patiently as the doctor explains the procedure.

He will draw blood then separate it into the red blood cells, the clear serum and the platelets. Then, after amino acids and vitamins are added, the enriched serum is injected back into my face. And my skin will look younger naturally.

I’m relieved when he produces a needle and draws four vials of blood from my arm; my keen sense of drama meant that I was half expecting him to sink his teeth into my neck.

I watch him preparing the serum and I start to feel like I’m in Frankenstein’s laboratory. I hum to try and drown out the two voices arguing in my head “How the hell do you know what he’s going to inject into your face? You could end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster. Don’t do it”.

“No. Do it. It’s only your own blood with lots of vitamins added to it. You’ll look all fresh and lovely”.

They are still arguing when he starts injecting my face from hair line to jaw line. My pain threshold is very low. And it really fucking hurts. I wince. “Stay still please”.

I want to get up and walk out but then one side of my face will look younger than the other. I curse myself for being such a shallow idiot.

Then I clench my fists and try to go to my happy place until it’s over.

It will take at least three weeks for me to see any effects. In the meantime my face looks like a pink pin cushion (without the pins obviously).

He advises me to have a top up in six months. I don’t think so.

At least my next appointment is going to be completely pain-free. A good haircut is supposed to take years off a person. And I have managed to book myself in with one of the best hairdressers in London.

I thought my face had calmed down a little but he asks me if I’ve just come out of the gym “You look a little flushed”. I nod then move on swiftly “What would you recommend? I don’t want to look mutton”.

We decide on a sleek graduated bob.

Then he suggests that I go for a deep conditioning treatment “I use an organic product with a lot of protein which is what hair is made of and lacks when it’s dry”.

I like the sound of that. He massages the treatment into my hair. I comment on the lovely smell “What’s in it exactly?”

It’s a mix of a protein rich plant called katera. And bull semen.

Bull semen? My hair is smothered in bull semen? And he couldn’t have told me that before? How do they get it? Do they make the bull wear a condom while it has sex or is someone masturbating it?

I try not to retch. I would insist on having it washed out immediately but this stuff doesn’t come cheap so I have to tough it out.

This means spending the next forty-five minutes sitting under a steamer so that the “treatment penetrates” my hair.

His unfortunate choice of words involuntarily set off a series of very disturbing images in my bull semen covered head.

Yuck. Yuck. Yuck.

fatal attraction

2010-05-15T16:32:00.014+01:00

It’s difficult holding this position. My legs are starting to ache. And my bottom is feeling cold.

The supermarket toilet is not the ideal place to do this. But I couldn't bear to wait any longer.

I’ve been hovering over the toilet seat holding the stick in what I hope is the right place for some time now (I find it hard to pee on demand).

Then I’m finally about to go when someone starts banging on the door “This is security. You’re in a disabled toilet.”

Damn. I’ve started now so I have to finish. I shout back in Turkish “Anlamiyorum sizi (I don’t understand you)”

There is a brief pause before another (older) voice pipes up. “Typical. She’s a foreigner. I expect she parks in disabled spaces too”.

He asks her if she’s sure that I’m not disabled. “Of course I am. I told you, I saw her walking in there bold as brass”.

I try to ignore them and focus on trying to pee on the stick. But they keep banging on the door “You shouldn’t be in there”.

I’m not quite sure what they expect me to do. I can hardly walk out mid-pee. And I have to wait for the result.

So I buy myself some time by having a rant at them “Nasil insansiniz yahu? Bakiniz beni rahat iseyim (what kind of people are you? Let me pee in peace)”.

Then I throw in a few “Allah Allah’s” for good measure.

There is silence from the other side of the door. Turkish is not a language that is easily identifiable so it throws people.

And the reference to Allah always works because people are either worried about appearing to be racist or fear that you may have terrorist links.

My heart is thumping as I watch the stick intently. A single pink line appears. I quickly double check the leaflet. Yes! It’s negative.

I step outside to find an elderly lady waiting to (rightly) chastise me. She points at the disabled sign on the door and speaks very slowly and loudly “This means it is for people in a wheelchair or for people with missing limbs”. I try not to laugh as she hops around on one leg to illustrate.

Then I practically skip all the way home. It’s lucky I’m in a good mood because my mother has been ‘taking care’ of me while I’ve been out.

And so far this has consisted of shrinking my favourite cashmere sweater, ironing sharp creases down my linen trousers and throwing away my distressed Seven jeans.

We sit down to eat. My father puts salt on his food before tasting it. Then he asks my mother for a lemon. She gets up, takes a lemon from the fridge, cuts it in half and hands it to him.

Then he asks for a napkin. And she gets up again. This happens several more times. “Dad, can you not just get things for yourself? She’s up and down like a yoyo. Her food’s going cold”.

She has always done everything for my father, right down to peeling his fruit. I’ll have to do something about that while I’m here.

I’m sure my mother is more than capable of rebelling (with a little encouragement).

He fixes me with a stare then continues eating his food. She has a little smile playing on her lips.

We finish our meals in silence. Then I tell them I’m going out this evening. And that I won’t be back until tomorrow. They exchange disapproving glances but say nothing.

I arrive at the bar early and watch Jake as he walks in. I can see girls nudging their friends and nodding towards him. He appears to be totally oblivious to the attention he attracts.

This happens everywhere we go. And it was something I found mildly amusing when I considered him a brief fling.

But now that I have fallen in love with him, it’s not in the least bit funny.

He gives me a long lingering kiss then tells me that he has a surprise for me. Oh dear. I am a control freak therefore I absolutely detest surprises.

I am appalled when he leads me into a karaoke venue. He has booked us a booth for an hour. I am struggling to understand why he thought this would be a good idea.

Then I remember him singing along to the Mamma Mia soundtrack in the car and trying to get me to join in. I had point blank refused “I don’t do anything that I know I’m not good at”.

But I did reluctantly admit to singing ‘No Woman No Cry” with a reggae band in Jamaica (having consumed copious amounts of rum). I enjoyed it so much that I refused to leave the stage.

They kindly allowed me to ruin a few more songs before I was carried off by their guitarist and deposited backstage.

There is audio evidence of that night. And I am definitely tone deaf. Jake assures me that the booths are sound proofed. But I am still a little embarrassed.

Then he says “You know if you just let yourself go a little this could be fun”. I hate being told to ‘let myself go’. Go where for fuck’s sake?

But I don’t want to seem ungracious so I reluctantly agree to give it a go. I cringe at my awful voice at first, only singing the odd line here and there.

But gradually I start to sing more and more until I can no longer hear how awful I sound. Then I fulfill a secret lifetime’s ambition by making him Danny to my Sandy and performing “You’re The One That I Want”.

This feels so liberating. My voice is hoarse by the time our hour is up. I thank Jake. Perhaps he knows me better than I think.

Then we do something I have managed to avoid thus far; we go back to his house. He has two tenants who pay his mortgage while he studies for his masters degree.

I haven’t been out with someone in a house-share since my student days. I just hope his bed doesn’t creak.

The house is empty but I’m still a little uncomfortable. Jake puts me at ease very quickly. And I discover that he is a fantastic cook.

I savour every delicious mouthful of the sea food chilli pasta he serves up. Then one of his tenants walks in. Agnes is French.

And I am very happy to note that she looks nothing like the playboy model I had envisaged. His other tenant is male so I can relax a little now.

Then Agnes’ gorgeous friend follows her in and my stomach tightens. Her eyes light up when she sees Jake.

Agnes introduces Millie to him but not me. Jake is quick to rectify that “This is my girlfriend, Kitty”.

I grin inanely at her. My fake smiles always make me look a little deranged which may explain why she disappears upstairs rather quickly.

I spend the next five minutes watching Agnes trying to flirt with Jake.

He is polite but distant in the way he talks to her. She, on the other hand, is clearly smitten with him. I mention this when she leaves the room. He tells me that I’m “being silly”.

I find that incredibly annoying. I point out the constant flicking of her hair as she spoke to him and the puppy dog eyes. Not to mention the barely concealed hostility towards me. He opens his mouth to speak. I tell him I hope he isn’t going to patronise me again.

He admits that she is a little weird which is why he keeps her at arms’ length. Then I think about the way women stare at him everywhere we go. And my stomach tightens again.

I’m feeling incredibly insecure and that is a huge setback for me; one of the things I’ve enjoyed about getting older is the confidence that comes with it.

It’s taken a long time for me to become comfortable in my own skin. The realisation that I would never be pretty first hit me when I was nine;

We were in Cyprus and I had a cousin the same age who was not only beautiful but had blue eyes which made her very special. Everywhere we went, people stopped us to tell her how beautiful she was.

My mother tried to comfort me with “Never mind, you’re clever” so I threw myself into learning and being as smart as possible.

But I still couldn’t help wanting to be pretty. I used to look in the mirror and imagine how much better my life would be if only I looked like my cousin.

I didn’t see her again for nine years. And by that point I was utterly consumed with jealousy. I had to drink lots of vodka before I could go home and face that vision of perfection.

I walked in to find an acne ridden overweight teenager whose eyebrows met in the middle of those (admittedly) still beautiful blue eyes.

And I learned a simple lesson. Be happy with who you are. Don’t compare yourself to other people.

Then I read a quote from Anjelica Huston “Someone once said to me, you’ll never be pretty but you’ll always be magnificent”.

I had already accepted that my big nose and uneven features meant that I would never be pretty. So I focused on being magnificent.

But being with Jake could easily undo all my hard work.

I tell him I’m not sure I can do this “I don’t want to be constantly competing with other women”.

He tells me that I’m not competing with anyone. He has no interest in anyone else. He is in love with me. My stomach does a little flip. He is in love with me. We kiss and I start to unbutton his shirt when Agnes walks back in again.

She sits on the end of the sofa “So, how did you two meet?” Her manner is very abrupt. I tell myself that it could simply be because her grasp of English is poor. And that’s why I shouldn’t tell her to fuck off (yet).

Jake buttons his shirt back up “I don't mean to be rude but we’re trying to enjoy a romantic evening alone”. She remains seated.

Jake takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom. I warn him that she is a bunny boiler. And insist that he locks the door. I don't want to wake up with a knife in my chest.

Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror; the soft glow of moonlight falls across my face. And I can see my high cheekbones, almond shaped eyes and lovely lips.

I’m not pretty but I am magnificent.

I’m still staring at my reflection when the room suddenly becomes very bright. Jake has turned the light on because he wants to see me ‘properly’. I almost scream in horror. It was just a trick of the light.

I'm not magnificent at all. I'm hideous.

Perhaps it’s time to consider surgery?

don't look back in anger

2010-05-04T12:04:00.033+01:00

I wake up in a state of panic. How long have I been asleep? Am I late picking Mia up? I check the time. Shit. It’s eight o’clock.

I stand up too quickly. And make myself dizzy. I lean against the wall to steady myself.

Then I remember that it’s Friday. And Mark picked Mia up from school today. But my relief is short-lived because I also remember that I was supposed to meet Jake thirty minutes ago.

I grab my phone; fourteen missed calls from him. He picks up straight away “What happened? Are you ok?” I assure him that I’m fine “I just had a little nap”.

He says he has been very worried about me. I’m a little confused. Then alarm bells start to ring; he has called me fourteen times in the last thirty minutes.

Damn it. I knew he was too good to be true. He is about to turn obsessive psycho on me.

The disappointment is evident in my voice “I think you’re over reacting a tad”.

He responds with “Really? You don’t turn up for our date last night and I don’t hear from you until this morning and you think I’m over reacting?”

Last night?

Apparently it’s eight o’clock Saturday morning. I am fully dressed, my feet are filthy and I have been asleep for almost seventeen hours straight.

I apologise profusely and promise that I’ll make it up to him tonight.

Then I realise that the house is eerily quiet. And that just adds to my sense of disorientation.

They must be having a lie-in. But why aren’t they snoring? Oh my god. I didn’t smother them in my sleep did I? I run into their (thankfully empty) bedrooms.

Then I go downstairs. The living room is empty but there is a pillow and duvet on the sofa.Who slept there and why? What is going on? I feel like I have woken up in some kind of twilight zone.

Then I have a flashback to what happened before I fell asleep yesterday afternoon (or lost consciousness, I’m not sure which);

My mother had started shouting at me the moment I walked in through the door “Why did you run off? Where did you go? We’ve been worried sick. You should have more consideration for us”.

And that’s when I snapped “I should have more consideration? What about your bloody snoring? And your noisy friends and canary and radio and television? I can’t sleep. It’s driving me mad. I want to smother you with your pillow just to shut you up”.

She ignored my outburst and put her hand on my forehead. “You feel hot” Then she looked down at my muddy feet. “You’re barefoot! What did you do with the slippers?”

I proudly declared that I threw them in the river. And when she asked me why, I told her that I didn’t want her life thank you very much. Then I went upstairs and collapsed on the bed.

I feel terrible. I must apologise to her. Where is she? The kitchen is empty too. Then I notice her through the window.

She is climbing up a ladder in the garden brandishing a hedge trimmer. And wearing her high heeled slippers.

My father is six foot four to her five foot nothing. So she wears heels all the time. And the fact that they caused her to break not only her own leg but my father's as well hasn't deterred her in the slightest.

Of course her version of events absolves both herself and her heels of any blame. Apparently my father lost his balance as he was getting in the taxi. She had tried to steady him. And he had fallen on top of her.

My father’s version (and the one we were all more inclined to believe) is that my mothers’ high heels had caused her to stumble on the cobbles. She had grabbed hold of him to steady herself as she fell backwards and pulled him down on top of her.

They were on holiday in Turkey at the time. And my father had refused to allow the surgeons there to operate on them. So my brothers had flown out to bring them back home.

We all dined out on that particular story for some time. They even featured on a BBC documentary about Guy’s Hospital when a doctor was asked about unusual cases and cited my parents.

There was a hilarious shot of them sitting opposite each other with their right legs in plaster.

I remind her about the metal plate in her leg. And suggest that she either gets off the ladder or takes off her heels.

She is (understandably) giving me the silent treatment. But her anger is evident in the ferocious way she is trimming the hedge.

I apologise for what I said yesterday. I explain that I was very tired. And that I didn’t mean it.

She brushes the trimmings off the top of the hedge. And right into my face. Then she gets off the ladder without acknowledging me. I stay a safe distance away until she puts the hedge trimmer down.

Then I follow her into the kitchen. The silent treatment is usually followed by lots of shouting and screaming.

I prepare for it by getting her the glass of water she’ll need when she feels faint because her blood pressure has gone up.

Then she throws me by asking (very quietly) “Do you think this is the life that I had wanted for myself?”

I wasn’t expecting that. And I’m not sure how to respond. I had always assumed that she was satisfied with her life. But I think I may have confused satisfaction with acceptance.

I know her life hasn’t been easy;

Her abusive bastard of a father died when she was ten and in that time widows could not remarry. So my grandmother took her out of school and engaged her to my father at the age of thirteen.

My mother never forgave her for that. Her friends were playing hopscotch while she was being a little housewife. She had five children (and a nervous breakdown) by the time she was twenty four.

Then the 1974 invasion happened and she had to leave behind everything she knew and start again with five children and a sixth on the way (me).

My father had suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and temporarily lost his sight the moment he got us to the safety of the UK.

He was hospitalised for months. Meanwhile my grandmother had a stroke that left her partially paralysed.

I am still contemplating her life and my response when she answers her own question “No Kitty. This was not the life I wanted for myself and it is definitely not the life I would ever want for you”.

I suddenly feel very small. We sit in silence for a while. Then she says “I’m sorry my snoring has kept you awake. I’ll sleep on the sofa. You won’t be able to hear me from there”.

I tell her that I would rather find somewhere else for us to stay than force her out of her bed.

She shakes her head “No. You mustn’t leave. Give me the chance to take care of you, even if only for a few weeks”.

I tell her that I don’t need to be taken care of. She shakes her head as her eyes fill up. I hand her a tissue. “I know you don’t. You have always taken care of yourself. But I need to take care of you.”

I wait for her to continue. She nervously twists the tissue around in her hands “You were born at a very difficult time”.

She pauses as her voice falters “In Cyprus we had been rich. In England we became paupers. I was always busy working on that god forsaken over-locking machine when you were a baby. Then as you were growing up, I was either taking care of the grandchildren or my mother. You had to bring yourself up. It was easier for the others. They were a lot older and they had each other”.

The tears are streaming down her face “But you were alone. I never had any time for you. And I’m very sorry for that”.

I’m not sure what to say because what she is saying is true. And for a long time I simply thought she didn’t love me.

That's why I was angry with her for years. I tried to hurt her as much as possible because I held her responsible for every single thing that ever went wrong in my life.

Then I realised that there comes a point when you have to take responsibility for your own life and stop blaming other people for your bad choices.

So I decided that I would only ever look back to gain understanding, not to apportion blame; that allowed me to make peace with both myself and my mother.

And helped me to understand that she loved me as much as she possibly could.

I tell her that I have a lot to apologise for too. She says we are both guilty but that she is guiltier “I knew you were going through your own hell but I never asked you about it because I was afraid of the answers. I thought your pain would kill me.”

And I finally understand why she never reached out to me.

When Mia first cried because she missed her father, I did everything I could to make her stop. I offered her chocolate and when that didn’t work I tried to make her laugh by wearing knickers on my head and doing a silly dance.

Then I realised that I was being selfish. I wanted her to stop crying because I couldn’t bear her pain, particularly when I thought I was responsible for it.

So I took her in my arms. And I told her that it was ok to cry because she missed her daddy; her need to express that emotion was far greater than my selfish need to suppress it.

And had my mother’s life been different; if she were capable of those thought processes then I am certain that she would have come to the same conclusion.

I reassure my mother that I would have been a fucked up teenager even if she had spent every waking hour with me. And that there isn’t a single thing I would have changed because I am the sum of all my experiences.

I tell her that I couldn’t have asked for a better mother.

And I mean it because she was the best mother that she could possibly have been in those circumstances.

She gently strokes the scars on my arm and whispers “Thank you".

The mixture of gratitude and relief on her face is heartbreaking. I lean over and kiss her forehead.

Then she looks down at my bare feet “I’ll buy you different slippers. You can choose them”. I stand up and take a pair of fluffy pink boudoir slippers out of the box.

I squeeze my feet into them and smile “No mum, these ones are fine for me”.

sending out an sos

2010-04-27T19:01:00.020+01:00

Sleep deprivation has been used as a form of torture during times of war. And I can completely understand why.

I would be willing to divulge any and all information right now in exchange for some sleep.

Obviously this means that I must avoid my mother at all costs; particularly as she has yet to interrogate me about Jake. I am praying that she isn’t home. But I can hear the shrill tones of her gang even before I open the door.

All I want is some peace and quiet so that I can sleep. Is that really too much to ask? I close the door quietly behind me, remove my shoes and start to tip toe up the stairs.

Then I hear “Kitty! We’re in the kitchen. Come and join us.” Damn it. I’m really not in the mood for them. I try to ignore her and continue up the stairs.

But I’m not fast enough. Her head appears around the door “Come and say hello to Afet”. Great, her little club has a fourth member today.

She observes my bare feet. Then reaches into her slipper box and hands me a pair of high heeled fluffy red slippers.

I tell her that they are a little too boudoir for me. And a size too small. But she insists I squeeze my feet into them.

“You’ll get a stomach ache walking around with bare feet”. I’m too tired to challenge her village 'wisdom' so I decide to just do as I’m told.

Then she leads me into the kitchen and puts a small cup (decorated with a map of Cyprus) in front of me. I hate Turkish coffee but the quicker I drink it, the quicker I can escape.

They turn their coffee cups upside down onto their saucers as soon as they’re finished. I follow suit.

The saucers are also decorated with a map of Cyprus. And there is a framed map of Cyprus on the wall (lest we should forget where we’re from).

My mother takes Meyrem’s cup and starts ‘reading’ the coffee residue “I see a bird. Oh, that means you will fly, far, far away. I see a crescent. You will go back to Cyprus, for a visit, not forever”.

She claps her hands happily “Oh good”. Afet isn’t impressed “But you go back to Cyprus every year”. I seem to recall that there is some sort of friction between her and my mother.

Meyrem insists that she didn’t know if she would be going back this year. Afet scoffs “You told me you already had the tickets“. She shakes her head furiously “Fatma has just seen it in the cup. This is the first I knew of it”.

My mother’s pursed lips are a warning sign. She clicks her knuckles. Then abruptly rounds up the reading “I see a tree, a tree bearing fruit, you will eat plenty of fruit. I also see sunshine. There will be sunshine in your life. Everything is good for you Meyrem”.

She puts her cup to one side and takes Afet’s. “I see a goat. A goat brings prosperity and wealth” Afet’s cynicism is quickly replaced by excitement at the mention of money "Am I going to win the lottery?"

My mother shakes her head as she looks in the cup “Oh no wait. It is a bad sign. The goat only has three legs, this is not good”.

Afet leans over to have a look at the cup. She moves it away from her and continues “I see tears, not of joy, but of shame and sadness. You must pray to Allah to forgive you for your sins”.

She is getting very upset “No, you are mistaken! I haven’t sinned”. My mother snaps at her “Yes you have. I see a figure of a woman, she is missing her hand. It has been chopped off for stealing”.

Poor Afet is very red in the face “Show me. Show me where you see this”.

She lunges for the cup. My mother clings to it and they tug at the cup between them. “Oh, you’ve ruined it. The coffee has moved. It’s just sludge now”.

Afet glares angrily at my mother whilst making a few choice hand gestures. Hatice grabs my mother’s monitor “Let me measure your blood pressure. I think it is dangerously high right now”

She shakes her off her arm. Then Afet gets up and storms out of the house. Hatice immediately asks if she really saw that in the cup. My mother shakes her head “No but I will never forgive her for what she did back in Cyprus.”

Apparently she stole yeni dunya’s (loquats) from her garden. “She’s always denied it but I saw her selling my yeni dunya’s at the market and she didn’t have yeni dunya trees in her garden, she had incir (fig) trees”.

I shake my head in exasperation “That was over thirty five years ago. Just fucking let it go”. She slaps me around the head in response. I take that as my cue to leave but she pulls me back into the chair. “Wait. I will read your cup then you can leave”.

She picks it up and stares at it for a while. “Hmmm...I see entwined hands. You will get married again to a dark haired man” I roll my eyes at her predictability. “I suppose he’s a Turkish Cypriot?” Correct.

Then I look down and realise that we are all wearing matching slippers. And somehow this image symbolises my future. My vision starts to blur.

She continues with “I see a stork”. I take a closer look at the cup. It really does look like a stork. “You will have another child. A boy”. She puts the cup down satisfied with her vision of my future.

Unfortunately it's a vision that is supported by the quartet of slippers that I can't stop staring at. My head is starting to spin.

Then she suggests I join them at the bingo hall this evening “We go every Friday”.

And it suddenly feels like the walls are closing in on me.

I can hear my mother shouting after me as I run out of the door and straight to the nearby river. The water usually has a calming effect on me. But all I can think of when I look at it now is the flooding that forced me out of my home. And back into my parents.

We’ve only been there for a few days but it feels like so much longer. And I’m scared the repair work will keep dragging on and I’ll be stuck there forever; wearing silly slippers and drinking coffee with nothing to look forward to except Friday night bingo.

That is not the life I had planned for myself. But I had never planned on being a single parent either. When I got married I had expected it to last for the rest of our lives. I had wanted someone to grow old with. I still do.

But I’m in love with a man I feel I have to stay young for. And what’s even worse is that despite being insanely pre-menstrual for a week, my period never actually arrived.

Apparently that is a relatively common occurrence with the type of pill I’m taking. But I have to consider the possibility that I may be pregnant. I know. I should just take a pregnancy test. And I will. Just as soon as I have prepared myself for the worst case scenario;

The options are simple. If I am pregnant then I either continue with the pregnancy or I terminate it.

I can’t continue with it.

Jake isn’t ready for that sort of responsibility and it’s not something I want to do alone again. In fact, right now, it’s not something I want to do at all.

So I have to terminate.

Then my hand instinctively (and protectively) moves to cover my stomach. I always said I would terminate an unwanted pregnancy. But I have never been tested on that. And I’m not sure I could bring myself to do it.

I would forever be thinking “My baby would have been crawling around about now.... My baby would have been starting school now.... My baby would be graduating now”. It would become a stick to beat myself with for the rest of my life.

So the options are actually anything but simple. What the hell am I going to do? And why is there a dog licking my toes? I pull my feet away from it.

Then I notice that the red boudoir slippers are covered in mud. And that means they no longer match the others. I stomp around in the mud to make them even dirtier.

But the scary symbolism is still visible in the remaining traces of red. So I take them off and throw them in the river. Then I feel much better. I also feel a little delirious.

I really need to sleep. And no canary and its radio or mother and her cronies or worries about babies that may or may not exist are going to stop me.

I walk barefoot back towards the house (hoping I don't get a stomach ache).

home sweet home

2010-04-19T11:25:00.028+01:00

"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 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.

mixed emotions

2010-04-06T11:27:00.022+01:00

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. Isn’t it? 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.

rebel with a cause

2010-03-30T10:34:00.022+01:00

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 over eighteen 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 lesbians 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's all about the climb

2010-03-22T20:03:00.016Z

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

the day of revelations

2010-03-16T10:04:00.015Z

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 friends. 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 (dad)”.

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?” I 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.

love is in the air

2010-03-09T11:55:00.010Z

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...

sorry is the hardest word

2010-03-01T09:52:00.024Z

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 five 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 1995 – 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 five 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).

Only Fools Rush In

2010-02-23T13:25:00.020Z

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 think (too) deeply.

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!

Birthday Surprises

2010-02-16T10:16:00.011Z

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 ring 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 my 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 in it. Don’t tell him I told you though ok? He said I wasn’t allowed to tell you about it.”

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

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

The Heat Is On

2010-02-08T11:38:00.011Z

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.

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.

Then I 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 2012 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...

The Long Goodbye

2010-02-02T10:20:00.025Z

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 leaving primary school. And when I was leaving primary school...... he was learning how to walk.

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 ten 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 general election?” I really don’t want to get into a political debate so I tell him that I haven’t decided yet.

Then he completely throws me by saying that 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 Turkish. 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 eleven 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.

The Date

2010-01-25T18:11:00.019Z

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 five. I am almost ten 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 five year old?

A Turkish Wedding

2010-01-19T14:17:00.016Z

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!

Mia and Me

2010-01-11T18:52:00.006Z

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. But they obviously needed the bed.

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.

Happy New Year

2010-01-05T11:50:00.017Z

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 Canadian 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).

A Turkish Christmas

2009-12-30T13:09:00.009Z

It is 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.

Birthday Girl

2009-12-22T10:05:00.005Z

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.

Pride and Prejudice

2009-12-15T14:53:00.018Z

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 looks and (childish) 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 the extent to which his business has been suffering in the recession. 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 bottoms, your eyes to your bottoms.”

The Greek - Part 7

2009-12-08T15:46:00.017Z

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 bottoms, your eyes to your bottoms” (in Turkish). 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 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 spit 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, “Canim (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.

The Greek - Part 6

2009-12-01T07:56:00.005Z

I must remain calm until I am in possession of all the facts.

The first step is to conduct a (basic) lie detector test. I position myself so my head is resting on the left hand side of his chest. Then I gently prod him awake and ask “Who is Maria?” His heart rate immediately (and audibly) increases as he feigns ignorance.

The next step is to make him talk. I pull my body back. And give him one almighty kick whilst bellowing “WHO THE FUCK IS MARIA?” He squeals in pain. I give him another kick. A two- legged (buckaroo style) one this time. He lands head first on the floor. His lower body remains on the bed; legs splayed with his bottom in the air. This (unfortunate) view momentarily brings to mind the haemorrhoid cream I found in his cabinet.

I recover quickly and repeat the question (again). He is still (foolishly) pleading ignorance. I lean forward. Grab his balls. And tell him I am giving him one last chance to tell me the truth. Otherwise I will destroy his chances of fatherhood. Permanently.

That seems to jog his memory. Maria is his girlfriend. I am now in possession of all the facts. And I am incandescent with rage.

He swears he had every intention of ending the relationship. That he doesn’t love her the way he loves me. He just needed confirmation that I wanted to be with him before he finished with her. He waits for my response (whilst nervously protecting his genitals with both hands). I surprise him with “So you’re a monkey now?” The idiot thinks it’s a reference to his hairy body (how unimaginative). I am actually drawing a parallel between him trying to swing from one relationship to the next and a monkey swinging from one branch to another. He won’t let go of one until he has the other within his grasp. This is perfectly acceptable in a monkey (who is swinging in a tree). But it is both weak and despicable in a man (who isn’t).

He pleads, “Just give me a chance, please. I’ll end it tomorrow. I want to be with you”. I throw his clothes at him and order him to leave. He manages to get one leg in his pants as I’m shoving him out of the door. He is trying to simultaneously hop and walk. I watch (with a high degree of satisfaction) as he takes a tumble down the stairs. Then I slam the door shut. I refuse to cry. He is not worth it. I pop a couple of sleeping pills and go to bed until it is time for Mia to come home.

We are always very happy to see each other after a long weekend apart. She runs in with her arms outstretched. I scoop her up and hold her tight. But I can still feel that horrible knot in my stomach. I can’t believe he has a girlfriend. I feel so stupid.

I distract myself by taking Mia to the park. We finally return home exhausted. Then she drops her bombshell “Mummy, something feels stuck in my ear”. I check her ear. Nothing there. I tell her so. “Actually mummy, I know there is – I stuck a chick pea in my ear at school”. I ask her when. She thinks it was a few ‘sleeps’ ago. I wearily pack a bag of wipes, books and snacks. It’s 8pm and we’ll probably spend the rest of the night in casualty.

We get there and I’m horrified to find that the same nurse is on duty that was there the last time we went a month ago. Damn. She remembers us. She gives me a tight lipped smile and tells me smugly that we’re in for a long wait. I don’t blame her. We caused a bit of a scene the last time we were here.

Mia had an ear infection and she was crying in pain. And that has a totally different effect on me than when she cries because I won’t let her have chocolate for breakfast. Said nurse decides to administer medication to ease the pain until we can see a doctor. Mia is hysterical. Shit. How do I deal with this? I can’t think at my normal speed because emotion is involved. Yes. I know. My inability to deal with emotion is a recurring theme.

She’s screaming “Mummy, help me. Don’t let them do this”. And it’s killing me. But I want her pain to stop so I help them. I’m having difficulty holding her arms down. That nurse loses patience with me and snaps ‘You’re not in control mum. You should be in control. Do your job”. I ask her calmly if she has any children. She says “No”. I scream at her at the top of my voice, tears streaming down my face “Well fuck off then!”

They finally manage to get it down her throat. Mia sits up wiping her mouth. She turns to the same nurse, points her little finger at her and scolds her with “That was not a nice thing to do to someone. You shouldn’t do that to people. You are not a nice lady”. We stare defiantly at her. Me and my girl. Us against the world. Well, one nurse. But the principle of unity is the same.

So we’re in for a long wait and I can’t even complain. A chick pea in her ear is hardly grounds to demand to be seen before a baby that’s shooting out from both ends.

I look around and suddenly realise that all the other children have both parents with them. And what are the chances of that happening in London? Or anywhere in fact? Just my bloody luck. I brace myself. Here it comes. I’m overwhelmed by loneliness. Not for long though. I notice Mia is about to get on a grubby bike. I grab the wipes and hurtle across the room towards her clutching them like a defensive shield and screaming “Noooooooooooo!” I pull her to safety. Then attack the bike in a wiping frenzy.

One packet of wipes and three hours later we finally get seen. No sign of the chick pea. I am advised to put a few drops of warm olive oil into her ear. I double check his ID to make sure he is a doctor and not a porter. That’s what my mother suggested so naturally I assumed it was another one of those village ‘pearls of wisdom’ that could safely be filed under ‘useless – possibly dangerous’; along with their cure for constipation which is…..wait for it…..sticking half a bar of soap up your bottom! The fact that you always went to the toilet shortly afterwards convinced them of its effectiveness. And speaking (sadly) from personal experience I can vouch that what they fail to take into account is that it not only brings out the poo, but half your bubbling insides along with it.

I thank the doctor and apologise to the nurse for swearing at her the last time we were here (it’s not her fault I can’t control my emotions).

We are driving home when ‘Just the Two of Us’ comes on the radio (I listen to Magic). I sing along. Mia loves it. Then she says “That’s like us isn’t it mummy?” I blink back the tears and agree “Yes sweetheart, that’s like us”. She decides it is now ‘our song’ (apparently ‘You Are My Sunshine’ is too “babyish” now). And we sing together “just the two of us, building castles in the sky, just the two of us, we can make it if we try” until she falls asleep in my arms.

I stroke her hair, my tears falling on her beautifully innocent little face. It really is just the two of us. And who better to build castles in the sky with than a child who still believes that anything is possible?

The Greek - Part 5

2009-11-24T11:24:00.012Z

It is 3am. His arm rests heavily across my waist. I clench and unclench my buttocks yet again. My stomach is starting to cramp. What I am doing is totally unnatural.

A sharp pain shoots through my groin. It’s time to admit defeat. I gently move his arm and get out of the bed. I head for the bathroom. Then realise that it is too close to the bedroom.

I walk quickly (in a most peculiar bum clenching fashion) to the living room. Close the door. Move towards the window. Open it. And let out a long (and very loud) fart. I would never have had those bloody onions on the pizza if I had known that I was going to end up in bed with Anthony.

I’m wafting it towards the window when I notice the light flashing on the answer phone. It’s my mother “Kitty, it’s your mother”. She always starts her messages with that superfluous statement. I turn the volume down. My mother never talks. She shouts. “We haven’t heard from you today and we’re worried. Phone me as soon as you get this message.”

I can hear the rattle of the phone as she tries to hang up then she carries on talking (to my father) “Of course she isn’t home, Mia is with her father so she is probably out doing god knows what with god knows who. If only she hadn’t left her husband. Mark was a good man” She lets out a big sigh “I miss him”.

Then she is distracted by one of those awful Turkish soaps that she is addicted to. “Ooh, has he found out that his- lover- is- actually- his- long- lost- sister- and- his- wife- is -her -mother -and –that- his- son -has been- having- sex- with- his- auntie, yet?”

My mother has selective amnesia. She will have conveniently forgotten her initial reaction to Mark; we were in her kitchen when I finally plucked up the courage to blurt out “I’m engaged!” (they didn’t even know I had a boyfriend).

She immediately (and very dramatically) collapsed into a chair before exclaiming “Oh my god! He is English, isn’t he?” in the same tone you would adopt to say “Oh my God! He is a blood sucking, flesh eating, kitten drowning, psychopathic paedophile, isn’t he?”

My grandmother took to her bed wailing “Aman AllahIm” (“Oh my god”) over and over again. And my father demanded that I summon him to the house immediately.

My mother answered the door, took one look at him, burst into tears and ran off crying “He is blond, we can’t even pass him off as Turkish”. My grandmother’s wailing got louder (and louder).

My father led Mark into the guest room where he had arranged three chairs ‘interrogation style’ in the middle of the room. Mark was made to sit opposite my parents (the chairs were so close that their knees almost touched). My father fired question after question at him while my mother simply wept loudly in his face.

After at least an hour of this my father asked him the final question ‘Do you love my daughter?’ to which Mark responded, ‘With all due respect sir, would I put myself through this if I didn’t?’ My father allowed himself a little smile.

And I allowed myself a little sigh of relief as I watched through the crack in the door. I had been rebelling against my upbringing ever since I ate my first packet of bacon flavour crisps at the age of eight. But I still cared a great deal about what my parents thought. Although I only (consciously) realised that when I was looking death in the face.

It was a lesbian friend’s birthday (I only mention her sexuality because it becomes relevant later in the story) and we were celebrating it in Brighton. It was late by the time we finally stumbled out of the club. Totally off our heads. And decided to go home with someone we had only just met. There were seven of us so it felt safe (and the first train wasn’t for another two hours).

It quickly became apparent that all was not right with our gracious host. His behaviour was odd. He made random religious statements. And he was jumpy.

We got to his flat to be greeted by a very skinny, nervous cat. That alone should have tipped us off. But it was cold outside and the flat was warm. So we continued to dismiss sign after sign.

Until he suddenly got up and went over to the cabinet. He took out a bottle of pills and popped a few. Then he took out a gun. He sat down cross legged next to me and started rocking back and forth with his finger on the trigger.

His face got redder and redder as his rocking became more and more frantic. He was mumbling incoherently. I was the closest to him so I would be the first to go. You expect your life to flash before your eyes at a moment like that. You’re supposed to think of all the things that you won’t live to see. The children you’ll never have. The countries you’ll never visit.

Do you know what was going through my mind the moment I realised that I was probably going to die? ‘Oh fuck, Mum and Dad will go ballistic. I’m going to be found dead in a house full of gay people and drugs’.

Yes. That is how deep it goes. So the fact that I love Anthony is only half the battle. An Englishman was bad enough. But would they ever come to terms with a Greek? I suppose it’s not entirely impossible. They did grow to love Mark.

It wouldn’t be easy but I am (sort of) confident that they would eventually come to accept Anthony. I’m actually thinking about this in serious terms. It can only mean one thing. Five years on from the divorce and I think I am finally ready to commit again.

I let out one last fart. Close the window. And go back to bed. I feel a sense of calm (and not just because I no longer have trapped wind). I snuggle up to him. I feel happy. Warm. Secure. Anthony sleepily wraps his body around mine and whispers “I love you Maria”. I freeze. Who the fuck is Maria?

The Greek - Part 4

2009-11-17T16:26:00.004Z

I am (gently) shaken awake at London Bridge. I’m totally disorientated. And I think I’ve been dribbling. It takes a minute or so to remember where I am.

Apparently the train is being terminated here because of a ‘technical fault’. I stumble off and squint at the board. The next train has been cancelled. I now have a fifty minute wait.

I am hung-over. I still have a painful lump on my forehead. I slept in these clothes. I am wearing what is left of yesterday’s make up. My hair is a mess. Everything is a little blurred without my contacts. I feel dizzy. All I want to do is go home. Not hang around here freezing my arse off. I am (unsurprisingly) in a really foul mood.

I march up to a railway employee and ask him why my train has been cancelled. He gives me a funny look (I clearly look like the morning after the night before). I roll my eyes and impatiently repeat the question. He shrugs, says “I don’t know” and tries to walk away. I’m not having that. I pull at his arm and tell him that he is being very rude. And that it is his job to know.

He tries to speak but I won’t let him. I keep a firm grip of his arm in case he attempts to walk away again. I am determined to have my say. Fares go up every year yet the service gets worse. Commuters are effectively held to ransom. People are milling around and nodding in agreement with me. I like an audience. I get into my stride, delivering an impromptu yet eloquent speech highlighting the deficiencies of our railway system.

Then I let go of his arm and say “Right. I’m finished. You may speak now. What have you got to say?” He smiles, points to a (very small) royal mail emblem on his jacket and says “I’m a postman”. Oh. “Yes, well.......your uniforms are too bloody similar” is the best I can manage before I hastily walk off to (quietly) wait for my train.

I get home, have a bath and wait for the pizza to arrive. I need comfort food. The doorbell rings. I open the door. It’s Anthony. I am wearing big fluffy dog slippers (present from my daughter, Mia). Unflattering striped boxers (that he had left behind three years ago). And a hideous but cosy fluffy leopard print top (present from the parents).

I close the door. Kick the slippers off and rush around like a whirling dervish. Get changed. Put make up on. Smooth hair down.

I open the door again. It suddenly occurs to me that he may not be there. But he is. He says he preferred my ‘eclectic’ look. And that his boxers suit me. He knows I kept them. And that I still wear them. How embarrassing.

He asks me why I left without saying goodbye. I offer him tea. I have to busy myself doing something. I don’t want to have this conversation. Not yet. Not now. I haven’t had time to think. I need to intellectualise, rationalise and analyse. I can’t just have an ad hoc conversation led by emotion. That would be a disaster.

Thankfully my phone rings. I answer it immediately. It’s my neighbour, Alison. She sounds upset. And she is in urgent need of legal advice (I was a lawyer in a previous life). Perfect. I excuse myself and go next door.

Alison is a devout born again Christian who hasn’t drunk alcohol for twenty years. She is on her second bottle of wine when I arrive. And seemingly intent on revealing every intimate detail of her unhappy marriage to me. Details I would really rather not be privy to.

I interrupt her with a reminder about needing legal advice. She says she wants a divorce. Not really my area (at least not professionally). I write down the name of a firm that specialises in family law. She thanks me. Then lifts her top up and tearfully asks “Do you think I have nice breasts?” This is getting a little too weird for me.

I have to make a quick call on which is the lesser of two evils; going back and having an unscripted conversation with Anthony or staying here and witnessing her descent into alcohol induced hysteria. All twenty pent up years of it. Not to mention the possibility of more random nudity. Decision made. I assure her that they are lovely as I am backing out of the door.

I go back to Anthony, gently kiss him, whisper “I’m sober now, make love to me” and lead him towards the bedroom. He doesn’t protest. Genius. I not only avoid talking, I get to have great sex. But there is one fundamental flaw in my brilliant plan. I still have hairy legs. And a knicker beard.

I tell him I need to ‘de-fuzz’ first. He laughs, “I love you, you mad Turk” then he scoops me up in his big manly arms and his tone becomes serious “I have waited a long time to be with you again and I’m not waiting a second longer”. We kiss as he carries me into the bedroom. I am swept away by the romance of it all. I swear I can hear music playing in the distance.

Then he trips over one of my hastily discarded doggy slippers and we land in an unruly heap on the bed. We look at each other before bursting into simultaneous laughter. And that one moment confirms it for me. I do still love him.

The Greek - Part 3

2009-11-10T13:00:00.004Z

He looks gorgeous. I must try my best to be cool. I still have time to convince him of my sanity. I casually reverse the car off the ticket machine, put the handbrake on and get out of the car.

I have perfected the art of styling it out. One simply acts as if everything is perfectly normal. People rarely question anything that is done with both confidence and conviction. Even with a throbbing, pulsating, neon lump on ones’ forehead. I give him a warm hug, slip my arm through his and suggest pre-dinner drinks. Vodka will work just as well in the absence of traditional painkillers. I am nothing if not resourceful.

Several neat shots later and my head is feeling much better. Then I notice that the waitress is paying him too much attention. I ask her a direct question. She looks at him while answering me. Not only is this rude, it is highly offensive. Ok. I know that I am having dinner with a friend (who happens to be an ex) but she doesn’t know that. Therefore flirting with him is very disrespectful.

The final straw comes when she leans forward, flicks her hair ‘L’Oreal’ style (no love, you’re actually not worth it) and (suggestively) asks him, ‘is there anything else I can do for you?’ This really is too much. He waves her away dismissively and takes my hands in his across the table. I’m not sure if this is a romantic gesture or one intended to restrain me.

If it is the latter, then he has failed to take into account that my legs are still free. I uncross them and kick one out as she is walking past. I connect, considerably harder than I meant to. She yelps. I say (in that over the top insincere way) ‘Gosh, I’m so sorry’. Our eyes meet . We have that unspoken exchange that women are so good at (and men are totally oblivious to). She correctly interprets my ‘back off bitch’ expression and hobbles off.

Anthony frowns at me ‘you did that on purpose didn’t you?’.’Yes’ I say proudly, ‘I did’. I take another gulp of wine. My head has stopped throbbing. But I am starting to develop double vision. Not good. Enough anaesthetising now. I start drinking water. I am clearly unfit to drive. Anthony suggests I go home with him.

I decide on the way back that I am going to sleep with him. Then I remember Plan B. I deliberately didn’t shave my legs or my bikini line just in case Plan A (drive so I won’t drink and end up back at his place) failed. I am always a couple of steps ahead of myself. Sometimes I don’t like being such a smartarse.

I knew I would never sleep with him if I had prickly legs and a knicker beard. Unless I can have a quick shave at his place. I’ll outwit the smug sensible sober me yet. I excuse myself as soon as we get inside and disappear into the bathroom.

Where is his razor? It must be in the cabinet. I start emptying it out like a woman possessed. How many bloody beauty products does one man need? There has to be a razor in here somewhere. I’m distracted by his haemorrhoid cream. I remember reading somewhere that it is really good for under eye bags and dark circles. I’ve been meaning to try it for some time but didn’t want to be seen buying it. I squeeze a little out of the tube and wipe it away with tissue. Just in case he has been applying it directly.

I squeeze out a bit more and dab it under my eyes. No visible difference. It just looks greasy. I lean forward to dab on some more when I spot the electric shaver on the wall next to the mirror. I slip out of my jeans. Anthony knocks on the door ‘are you ok in there?’ I shout back ‘I’m fine’ then ‘do you have any shaving cream?’

‘Any what?’ He walks in. I watch as he takes in the scene before him. The entire contents of his bathroom cabinet are strewn all over the floor. I’m standing on tip-toes with one leg hoisted up into the sink holding his shaver in one hand and the haemorrhoid cream in the other. ‘I forgot to shave my legs’ I offer by way of explanation ‘And you have to do it now? Why?’ ‘Because’, I pause for dramatic effect “I have decided that I’m going to have sex with you!” – I say this in the excited manner of a game show host announcing the lucky winner.

He doesn’t look remotely interested. He comes over and helps me get my leg down from the sink. He takes the shaver and the cream out of my hands and says ‘You can have the bed. I’ll take the sofa’. I’m confused. And more than a little humiliated. This is the first time a man has turned me down. Not because I’m irresistible. But because men do not turn down sex. Ever.

I ask him to call me a cab. He firmly suggests I ‘just get some sleep’. I ask him why he doesn’t want to have sex with me. He says that he would love to have sex with me but not when I’m drunk. I scoff at him ‘don’t be so bloody holier than thou. I’m sure you’ve fucked drunken women before’.

I am about to continue my rant when he silences me with ‘I love you a lot more than I realised. It has taken me a long time to admit that to myself. And I would prefer you to be sober when we make love. Is that so unreasonable?’ I shake my head ‘no’. Then my eyes involuntarily start to water. He strokes my hair while I cry silently on his shoulder. He spoons me (fully clothed) all night.

I wake up in the morning with a pounding hangover. And the slow, awful realisation that I made a complete and utter arse of myself. Then I remember what he said to me. I gently move away from him and out of the bed. I don’t want to be here when he wakes up. I wouldn’t know what to say.

I sit on the train feeling sick. And not just because of the alcohol swimming around in my body. I think I still love him. This could actually work. So why do I want to run for the hills?

The Greek - Part 2

2009-11-03T18:07:00.004Z

I am about to do something I have never done before.

I tell the woman that it’s my first time and ask her to recommend a suitable prep cream. I strip off and vigorously rub it all over my face and body. I feel a slight tingle at first. And I look a bit flushed. I feel a little hot.

Then my face goes bright red. I watch as the redness spreads with indecent haste across my body. I feel really hot. My skin is burning. I’m on fucking fire!

My heart is racing. I feel dizzy. I must be having some kind of extreme allergic reaction. Like those poor women who burn their heads with hair dye. Except this isn’t my head. It’s my face. And my entire (and I mean entire) body.

I’ve probably got third degree burns. I’ll be disfigured for life. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I want a tan? I’ve got olive skin for fuck’s sake! I’m starting to hyperventilate.

I grab a towel and run into reception screaming. She narrows her eyes and peers at me ‘Oooh, what happened to you? You’re bright red’. I am also hysterical. ‘No shit sherlock! My skin is fucking burning! Call an ambulance! Now!’

I’m frantically waving the bottle of cream around as I speak. She takes it out of my hand and looks at it. Apparently I have used a very strong ‘tingle’ cream. It works by bringing all the blood to the surface so that you tan faster. I can’t believe people do this shit knowingly. Then expose themselves to the extreme heat of a sunbed. I grab the bottle to see for myself. It is for use only by ‘experienced tanners’. And it is supposed to be used ‘sparingly’. I slapped on half the bottle.

The burning feeling isn’t as intense. I start to calm down. My awareness increases as my adrenalin levels decrease. I become aware that I have attempted to wrap myself in a tiny towel that doesn’t quite cover my bottom.

I remember that the cafe area is directly behind me. I turn around slowly. Please let it be empty. Please. Please. Please. Damn it! Why are there so many people at the gym on a saturday? And why are they all staring at me? Ok. I admit that’s a stupid question - I am half naked and lobster red. And I ran into reception screaming like a banshee. That is why they are staring at me.

All I can do now is try and style it out. I tug at the towel in a pointless attempt to make it meet across my bottom. I muster as much dignity as the situation will allow. Then I stick my nose in the air and walk off slowly in a calm fashion.

I have a cold shower before I take issue with the lady who gave me the cream. Yes. I know. I should have read the back of the bottle. But she should have warned me. Especially as I told her it was my first time. The manager offers me a free facial by way of compensation. I opt for the most expensive one. I deserve it. I was traumatised.

The redness has subsided and the facial has ensured that I have a natural healthy glow as I set off for my (non) date with Anthony.

I park my car, take my seatbelt off and bend down to swap my flats for heels. I haven’t driven in heels ever since I drove into a bus stop and wrote off my previous car. I must stress that I didn’t drive into it because of my heels. I drove into it because I was so deep in thought that I (momentarily) forgot I was driving. The heels made it difficult to slam on the brakes once I remembered.

As I sit back up, I notice that the car next to me is moving backwards. But it’s empty. I’m fascinated. How is that possible? I’m still trying to work it out when I’m thrown back by the impact of my car rolling forward into the ticket machine.

Damn it! I forgot to put my handbrake on. I was the one moving. I realise this just as my head is coming forward (with force) on to the steering wheel. It occurs to me that perhaps my life would be simpler if I wasn’t always looking for the deeper explanation.

I check my reflection in the mirror. I have a large bump on my forehead. I look like a bloody unicorn.

I’ll wait in the car until it goes down. I hate being late but I can’t turn up looking like this. I send him a ‘stuck in traffic’ text. Then I hear a tapping on my window. It’s Anthony. And he has that look of genuine concern on his face again.

My plan to convince him that I am not, in actual fact, a total head case suddenly seems somewhat futile...

The Greek - Part 1

2009-10-27T18:11:00.014Z

I am in the Downward Facing Dog position when my phone beeps loudly with a message. Damn! I thought I had it on vibrate. The yoga instructor approaches me, holds her hand out for my phone and scolds me with ‘your phone is interfering with the union between the mind, body and soul’.

I don’t appreciate her patronising tone. I respond with ‘so are all the farts that people are doing – are you going to attempt to confiscate their bottoms too?’ I walk out (with my phone). I started yoga because I thought it would calm me down.

Obviously, it hasn’t. And it seems to bring on flatulence in a lot of people. Or a lot of flatulent people enjoy yoga. Either way, it is not pleasant.

The message is from Anthony: ‘hey, how are you? It would nice to meet for a catch up. Let me know’. Ordinarily my answer would be a simple no. I don’t tend to meet up with my ex-boyfriends. It’s a bit like re-visiting the scene of a crime – if you’re smart, you just don’t do it.

It’s a bit more complicated where Anthony is concerned. We were together for an incredibly intense six months. We challenged each other constantly. Our similar temperaments led to ferocious, passionate debates that we both thrived on. Although neither of us would have admitted that.

Unfortunately, this was a union that was flawed from the beginning for one simple reason. Anthony is a Greek Cypriot. I am a Turkish Cypriot. And as my father once said ‘we make friends of them, we even break bread with them but we never, ever, sleep with them’.

Our parents ‘ views on the subject were (ironically) very similar, as are our cultures, our genetic make- up, our food and our mothers’ blood pressure, which (predictably) shot up to stroke levels amidst cries of ‘this will put me in my grave’ and ‘those murdering Greek/Turkish (delete as applicable) bastards stole our house/country/goat’.

Although the Romeo and Juliette star crossed lovers aspect of it really appealed to my sense of drama; ultimately we didn’t care enough about each other to take on over a century of bad blood between our ancestors.

So we had the most mature break up I have ever had. No shouting. No accusations. No anger. Just a (sad) mutual acceptance that we had gone as far as we could go. We agreed to remain friends.

That was three years ago and although we have texted, emailed and spoken on the phone, we haven’t seen each other since.

My phone beeps with another message from him: ‘slept in the bath recently?’ I laugh out loud. And cringe. Simultaneously. Anthony had taken me away for a romantic weekend. But he was in the middle of a huge negotiation at work and incredibly distracted.

Naturally this was pissing me off. After what felt like unusually perfunctory sex, he rolled over and went to sleep without hugging me. I lay there fuming. Then I decided that I didn’t want to lie in a bed with someone who was being so cold towards me (and being asleep was no excuse in my mind).

I looked around for somewhere else to sleep. The floor was too hard. The chair too upright. I decided on the bath, took my pillow and the duvet and got in. I woke up to find him standing sleepily over me saying ‘what the hell are you doing?’ I looked blankly at him. I couldn’t tell him I was upset because he didn’t cuddle me. That would have been weak and pathetic and I didn’t feel secure enough with him to expose that side of me.

I couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation fast enough so I continued to stare silently at him, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. He looked at me with genuine concern. Then he leant down and spoke slowly and softly to me (in that way you speak to an elderly relative who is losing their marbles and therefore poses a threat to themselves and/or others) , ‘ok sweetheart.......let’s get you out of the bath........ and into the bed’.

I let him guide me to the bed, pulled the covers over my head and lay there all night, absolutely mortified. I never did explain why I decided to sleep in the bath. I preferred him to think I was a total head case rather than admit that I was capable of being soft. Yes. I know. I have issues.

Another message ‘I’ve missed you, you mad Turk. ’ I’ve missed him too. And he is less of an ex and more of a friend. And I meet my other friends for a drink so why not him? What harm can it do? Ok. I know what harm it can do. But the fact that I am trying so hard to justify meeting him means that I have already decided I’m going to do it. So I’m going to cut the crap and text him back.

So, what does one wear to meet an ex-boyfriend one hasn’t seen for three years? Suggestions please!