I’m happily munching on a Nairn’s Fruit and Spice biscuit…

Me: I love these. Try one.

Daughter: They don’t look right.

Me: Try one.

She bites into a biscuit gingerly…

Me: There’s something about the smell and taste of them…. reminds me of Christmas and all the family seated around the table, watching crap on TV..

Daughter: Yeah, these biscuits are like Christmas. They’re so dry the word ‘dry’ isn’t dry enough to describe the dryness.

She’s clearing clutter and an assortment of unwanted clothes from her bedroom aka squat…She throws me a flimsy piece of material…

Me: What’s this?

Daughter: What does it look like?

Me: It looks like a very tiny bra.

Daughter: It’s the one I had in Year 7.

Me: What am I supposed to do with it?

She examines the label inside…

Daughter: 32 AA

then glances at my chest…

Daughter: You’ll need padding..

Me: Why have you got dark circles around your eyes?

Daughter: I am not like other mortals.

Me: You haven’t been sleeping.

Daughter. Like I said, I am not like others.

Me: I’m being serious.

Daughter: So am I.

Me: You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if there was anything wrong…

Daughter: No.

Me: Are you on drugs?

Sometimes you just have to say things out loud…

Daughter: Yes. I’m going up to my room right now and I’m gonna pull up the loose plank under my bed and take out the bag of coke I was saving for Christmas, then I’m gonna do a line. After that,  I’m going to the bathroom where after brushing my teeth and washing my hair, I’m gonna do a line. Then I’m off to the pound shop to do another line and maybe get some stationery for school…

Daughter: You’ve had 18 years of my life to learn how to season food and still you fail.

Daughter: What the hell is that?

She looks disdainfully at the new chair in my writing room..

Daughter: Your boyfriend gave it to you didn’t he?

Me: Well, yes actually. I love it.

Daughter: What is wrong with him? Why is he always bringing you things…?

Me: He finds these amazing objects..

Daughter: What next, a wheel barrow with no wheels? A dead pigeon?

Daughter: Where is it?

Me: It is a he..

Daughter: Norman! Where you at?! Norman! Norman!

Daughter: You bought the wrong cake.

Me: It’s a cake

Daughter: With a buttercream topping..

Me: It’s still a cake..

Daughter: But not a traditional birthday cake with royal icing..

Me: Yours is not a traditional birthday as in it’s not actually your birthday, yet, and anyway, buttercream is icing..

Daughter: Not royal icing..

Me: Close enough..

Daughter: You go to Battersea Dogs Home  to buy a puppy and they give you a chicken …with fur..Are you happy?

Daughter: You look like Roger.

Me: Your dad?

Daughter: No, in ‘American Dad’.

She rushes in like daylight, cotton-fresh and full of promise, unfurling her long-legged self over the arms of a comfy sofa. Our mild-mannered cat, Benjy, on sighting her, scurries out of the room. She can’t stop laughing..

Me: It’s not funny. It’s really not good you know….that he has that reaction to you..

Daughter: Cat needs a psychiatrist.

Me: No, he needs you to stop calling him ‘Ian’, ‘Felicia’, ‘Furry Fool’ and…he needs you to stop..

Benjy saunters in, halts me mid flow..

She raises an eyebrow, Benjy takes a step back, then another, getting ready to pounce or run..She leans in, looks at him with a gaze holding more mischief than malice.. Benjy’s wide-eyed, entranced, slightly disturbed, and that’s it, they’re locked in…It’s a strange ‘love-you-hate-you’ silent Spaghetti Western with me as the peacemaking Sheriff..

Benjy retreats…into the hallway…

Daughter: Bye bitch.

Me: For God’s sake..

Bliss…is a glass of Campo Viejo Rioja, a six o’clock sunset, velvety chocolate…and me in the garden…with nothing to do…but breathe…

Daughter: There’s nothing sweet in the house.

I offer her my smile and a chunk of Lindt Excellence…

Daughter: I tell you I’m hungry and you give me facial expressions and poison.

Me: Dark chocolate is actually very good for you – it’s a powerful antioxidant, and it improves blood flow, lowers your blood pressure and even improves brain function.

Daughter: Can it grow hair?