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..

I’m feeling nostalgic as I take a left at the end of Mount Nod road, pass St Peter’s church, the venue for her first Brownies group. I recall walking with my shy girl, waxing playful, me and her at peace with the world…And when I get home…

Me: Do you remember ?

Daughter: I hated that Brownie group.  Not the girls. The leaders. They were sadists. All of them. We baked cakes and weren’t allowed to eat them. Then they had the audacity to tell us they’d be bringing in a pet the following week so we were all excited.

I try to stifle my laughter…

Daughter: A puppet owl, mum. They brought in a puppet owl.

And fail…

Daughter: Do you know what happened when ET fucked an egg?

I brace myself for impact..

Daughter: Your head.

I’m feeling like a bona-fide yogi as I pour the contents of a Sainsbury’s Lentil Dahl soup tub into the saucepan & stir. Inevitably she’s curious and wants to know what’s cooking..

Daughter: What the hell is that?

Me: Carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, chickpeas with green and red split lentils. In other words..

Daughter: Shit and mustard.

Me: I was going to say…manna of the gods..

Daughter: Shit and mustard.

Home from school she opens the fridge in search of something edible and liquid sugar aka ginger beer. We’re in the vast and foreign country of A Levels and sixth form, a new terrain for she and I. It’s still a little strange to see her out of the navy blue uniform that had for so long, been her second skin. .

Me: How was school?

She grunts.

Me: Are you still going to Rachel’s  party tomorrow?

She grunts

Me: You don’t sound very excited about it.

Daughter: When have you known me to get excited about anything?

She gives me a hard stare…daring me to come up with something, anything…

Me: OK…an example eludes me right now…but I can guarantee you one thing, possibly due in the next few years, that you will get excited about…everyone does…

Daughter: This conversation has gone on for too long already..

Me: Your first date..if indeed you haven’t been on one already…be it with a boy or a girl …even you won’t be able to contain your excitement…

She sprays a mouthful of ginger beer in the air…

Daughter: I’m not a lesbian mum.

Me: I’m just saying…whatever your preference….a first date is special.

As she leans in I’m feeling she may be about to impart information of a sensitive nature..

Daughter: Mum I want you to listen to me and listen very carefully. I am not and never have been a lesbian. In fact I am now going upstairs to my room where I intend to build a shrine in honour of the male sexual organ, commonly known as the penis.

Suddenly, we’re laughing...

Behold..a dinner table laden with Christmas food cooked by moi…fried plantain, turkey, roast potatoes, corn, sprouts and all around, the mellifluous sound of Yuletide laughter as we watch re runs of Columbo on TV – a little nostalgia to warm the cockles of a family’s heart….

Beside me…a hooded figure sits with her head bowed tapping the screen of a brand new android phone. I’m expecting her to say ‘humbug’ any minute…She comes up for air, looks at the turkey on her plate….then at me…then at the turkey..then me.. 

Daughter: Can I order a pizza?

Me: How about a game? Something in keeping with this Yuletide season…Snakes and Ladders? Cluedo?

Daughter: You’re really not alright. You do know that don’t you.

Me: Monopoly?

Daughter: How about golf? We could use your head to putt.

A lazy week day evening and I’m in some kind of heaven….keeping company with quiet thoughts, a little sherry and a short story collection I never want to end…

Inevitably, she explodes into the frame, a wild,  psychotic sunrise rummaging through her mother’s womanly things..  

Daughter: My, my, my..so many hair products…such little hair..

Me: Hugging your mother is a revolutionary act..

Daughter: Are you on drugs?

Me: Go on, be a rebel, do the unexpected..

I make a move to wrap my arms around her..

Daughter: If you don’t stop trying to hug me I will skin you, wear your face and use it to scare kids next Halloween.

Me: Would you like anything from the shops?

Daughter: Birthday cake

Me: It’s not your birthday

Daughter: Everyday is my birthday mother.