Her back is broad and her shoulders wide. Her body tells of capability. Her face is thin and she has high cheekbones. Her nose is narrow and straight, giving the impression that life’s discomforts slip from her without disturbing her. But her chin is pointy and juts out to catch all pain and atrocity. She has watery blue eyes that punctuate the solidness of her face. And because her eyes are the window to all her delight and disgust she often hides them behind dark glasses, even in the winter. I’ve inherited this from my mother. Whilst I don’t actually wear dark glasses I do see the world as a slightly shady place.

‘Did you get my message on Tuesday?’ Mum asks. I don’t say yes and that it made my day. I say yes but I’ve been too busy to call back. She nods.

‘How was the wedding?’ She knows all about my social life and what I do with myself on a daily basis. It’s a tactic to avoid living a life of her own.

‘Fluffy,’ I reply.

‘Beautiful.’ Issie smiles.

‘What a shame about the rain, especially as today is so beautiful. Isn’t that always the way?’

‘They must have expected rain or at least thought there was a fair probability. It is August, it is England.’ I don’t know why I do this. Behave badly. But I always do. My mother always brings out the worst in me. The moment I am in her presence I am incapable of being polite, let alone charming. I become petulant, sulky, churlish and unreasonable. My mother authorizes this appallingly childish behaviour by silently indulging me. The harder she tries to please, the meaner I become. I always leave her house ashamed of myself.

‘Ignore her,’ says Issie.

‘Oh, I do,’ giggles my mum.

‘You know how she hates weddings.’

I pretend to have an overwhelming interest in the yellow patches of grass on the lawn. My mother cuts me a piece of chocolate fudge cake. It was my favourite as a child. I consider telling her I’m dieting but it’s a lie. I’d only be doing it to be pathetic.