I’m in the kitchen making myself a coffee, enjoying a peaceful March afternoon, when she appears brandishing a fluorescent pink, bob-shaped wig, a styling brush, a crumpled lager can and a jar full of red, shimmering glitter. 

Daughter: I need you to play dead.

Me: What?

Daughter: A photography assignment. Oh, and you have to wear this.

Suddenly the world’s a sickly shade of cotton candy pink as she dangles the wig a little too close to my face.

Me: It doesn’t smell good. Where did you get it?

Daughter: Ebay.

Me: I’m not putting that thing on my head. The previous owner may have had lice.

Daughter: Do you want me to fail my photography A Level?

I know it’s a rhetorical question but the wigs smells so distinctly bad and of ‘a foreign life’ I almost say ‘yes’… 

Me: Why do I have to wear it anyway?

Daughter: You’re a party girl into drugs, sex and bad times..

She positions me, very carefully on a dining room chair, then places the wig on my head, pulling down the left side then the right, adjusting the fringe. She takes a step back to observe the subject, as in me, and collapses on the floor laughing..