‘You want money, I suppose. I’ve often wondered when this day would come – you knocking on my door, having failed in life like you failed me as a daughter.’

‘When are you going to make this place more of a home? Look at it. You’re living like a squatter. You’ve nothing here that you couldn’t just run away from and leave behind. It all feels, I don’t know… temporary.’ ‘It suits me fine. It reminds me that I’ve got to keep moving on, keep an eye out for opportunities that might arise and entice.’

I laugh heartily but it strikes me that the laugh was born in a sad pouch somewhere inside me. I’m not being natural. I just want him to like me. I want everyone to like me.

Dad was comfortable having Mum around but I never recall him showing her any affection. He was a dour and distant man with a foul temper and, I’ll be honest, I was scared of him.

I had been in London for nearly two years and still hadn’t really made any worthwhile connections.

I think this was the moment I realized that my life was no longer mine to control.

I’m always bending over myself to be someone that people like and, sometimes, I get the urge to do something that feels liberating to me. Yes, I feel terrible now, absolutely mortified if the truth be known, but at least it felt like I was living a little.’

I felt like a teenager after his first bottle of cider and wanted the journey to last forever. I hadn’t felt like this in a long, long time.

We relied upon each other for our every need and spent the next three years in a cocoon together. If she left me, I would be in the deepest shit. I did everything I could to make sure that it was the same for her. We led our lives inside a huge warm watermelon never questioning whether it was for the best out of fear of what the answer might be.