I am having lunch with my mother. This means that this day that has got off to such a great start is set to continue on top form. She is cooking Irish stew. She calls me while I am busily scraping last night off my skin, squatted in a three inch deep bath of lukewarm water (the shower is broken). She wants to make sure that I haven't gone and ‘done anything silly' like 'going vegetarian or something like that sister of yours.’ I inform her sweetly that no, I am still killing animals because I like the taste of them. It satisfies her.

I can feel the rain coming through my coat. It cost fifteen pounds from Primark so I suppose I shouldn’t be entirely surprised. My mother will, undoubtedly, first ask me why I am not wearing the mackintosh she bought me. She will then ask why I didn’t bring an umbrella. The reasons I am not so attired, and thus laden, are as follows: reason ‘no rain coat’- the damned thing is currently on sale at our hospice shop for 50p. It has fallen down through the value ratings from a whopping ‘top notch’ £4.50 all the way to ‘bargain bin baseline’ with the drifting months. It would seem that there really is no one in north London who wants to look like a cross between Paddington Bear and a 1980’s drag queen. Reason ‘no umbrella’- I couldn’t find the only one that isn’t broken. I think Alex may have been, and probably still is, asleep on it, I half remember it being safely tucked down the back of a sofa cushion.

The doorbell barks like a dog. When I press it the second time it plays ‘Oh When the Saints,’ I am about to have to press it a third time and endure a polyphonic rendering of ‘Greensleeves’ when I catch sight of my mother’s shadow bustling to greet me. "I am so sorry love, I was in the bathroom." She looks at me as though I were an exhibit in a legal case, "You are soaked! Why aren’t you wearing that nice raincoat I bought you? And where is your umbrella?"
"I didn’t realise it was wet out," one small lie smothers a multitude of my sins. "I’m worried about your sister; she is still hanging around with that horrible Richard character. He just wants to control her. I mean they aren’t together anymore. I do wish she would break free from these people. At least you are alright." It has started. "Speaking of which Jamie was round here a couple of days ago and he said you two hadn’t met up in a long time, you ought to give him a call you know, he is still very fond of you."

Jamie - my first ever serious boyfriend - an absolute star of course, a real gem, but, contrary to my mothers continued belief I will not be marrying him at any point in the near future.

"He is doing very well you know, he has just been given another rise." Now, Jamie never boasts about anything, so the chances are this ‘rise’ is something he has mentioned while talking about the general increase in wages made to those who actually have wages to increase. "Have you had any auditions yet? I have been watching that X Factor, I think you should try going on that." I take my coat off and uninvited hang it on the banister. I trip over a dog ball and have to grab the radiator to support myself. It is uncommonly hot, and I yelp. "What’s wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"Well you are making a lot of noise for nothing."
"Where are the dogs?"
"I locked them in the garden, I was mopping the floor."
"I feel honoured."
"I don’t just do it for you, you know."
"I should hope not." My mum’s place is the same landfill site for stuff it has always been. The mess is unfathomable. Then I think of my own den and feel slightly guilty for casting aspersions. I really have to clean up today. My mum is opening the back door. "Look guys, look, its auntie Becca," two wild balls of fluff launch themselves at me yapping and pawing at me with their muddy feet. My head is hurting. "Coffee would be nice." She wants me to make it, this is a hint. I am not surprised; she always manages to make coffee taste like shit. I sometimes wonder if she subconsciously puts something in it between the hot water and milk. I cannot fathom why else her coffee should be so vile. I fill the kettle and put it on. "And how have you been mum?" She sighs as though the world held no joy for her, "You know how it is. I have these dogs to walk and the weather like it is, and my heel is playing up again. I haven’t seen your father in two weeks because he has been rambling and I think Frank must be avoiding me."

Frank is my older sister’s first real ex-boyfriend, he and my mother play with computers once a week while they drink a lot of her shitty coffee, keeping them up until three am. I used to wonder if they were having an affair; I used to think my mum only had daughters so she could covet their ex-boyfriends. Or perhaps she adopts the exes because she always wanted sons. Who knows?

"Sorry to hear that." The kettle has boiled. There are no clean teaspoons so I shake what looks about right the amount of Nescafe into two suspect-clean mugs and pour on the water. I am swirling the cups to mix when she descends on me with the milk and another set of confidence deflators.
"I saw Sharon, and you know her Sandra has just got a part in a play in the West End, Sharon says it was her first audition too." I went to school with Sharon, she used to be fat and ugly and she sure as hell can’t sing. "Did you hear back about that T.I.E. tour you applied for?"
"I am not right for the part."
"What do you mean? You’re young, you’re beautiful. If you would just lower your voice a bit, be a bit more feminine, I’m sure you’d be right for more parts. It’s no wonder people think you aren’t right when you are so brittle all the time." I am going to hit her. "No mum, it’s just that they were looking for an amputee," I smile sweetly, feeling a small triumph, "Typical, always jobs for invalids and nothing for people like us. I’ve often thought my life would have been easier if I’d been a foreign-disabled-lesbian. We would have got more benefits." I sigh and sip my coffee. I cannot argue with my favourite bigot anymore. I haven’t the strength. "And they have that ‘Ethic Beauty’ up at the palace again. Not beauty at all if you ask me,"
"Mum, for god’s sake shut up."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard," I take my coffee into the living room.
"Well, I mean, if we had White Beauty they’d have something to say now wouldn’t they."
"Please refrain from casual racism, just until I have gone, then you can inflict it on the ones who will endure it," I nod toward the dogs, "you know I hate it." There is an awkward pause and then,
"Oo I was watching that strictly ice dancing or whatever it is and there’s one of the little boys that is ever so good. I can’t remember his name. Not sure what he does really, but my word I was impressed," and the flood gates are down and she is off and there is no stopping her, I start piecing together last night and then something grabs my attention, “…and I got an email from Peter, I mean, can you believe it, of all the cheek he emails me after all of these years! He wants to know how I’m doing, asked if I wanted to meet up! Well, I told him, bigwig to some he may be but it doesn’t mean he can bigwig back into my life so easily."

Peter North is an old flame of my mothers. The only contact she might have ever passed down to me worth having and she refuses to speak to him because they had sex just after my parents divorced and I don’t think she enjoyed it very much. And yes, this is THE Peter North, Peter North director of The Globe Theatre. I cannot count the number of times I have begged by mum to pull a few strings there and she has told me that she has totally lost touch. So now I am really sitting up in my chair.

"But I thought you had entirely lost touch,"
"Well that’s the funny thing, we had, but then he found me on Facebook didn’t he, sent me a Facebook message of all things, through his son’s account!"
"And you are sure this isn’t a game?"
"Well, it is his son alright."
"How do you know?"
"Well, Frank was round," I interrupt,
"I thought you said you hadn’t seen Frank," she plays innocent, the untruth of her lonesome martyrdom has been discovered,
"Did I? I don’t recall,"
"It doesn’t matter," I am too keen on the Peter story.
"Yes, so, Frank was round and he said, ‘well, add the son as a friend and then look at the photos and things and see if you can find the father.’ And I did, and there was Peter, large as life all over the poor lads’ page." I take a large gulp of coffee, I need to be diplomatic. Disinterested: Is Peter still in the theatre?" - Of course he is -
"Why, of course he is dear."
"Well...?"
"Yes?"
"Mum, please, don’t play dumb, you know how much I need a break right now."
"And you think that good for nothing lump would help?"
"If you played nice," her lower lip comes out,
"When did I ever not?" I feel my nostrils involuntarily flair.
"Mum..."
"Stew’s ready." I have my work cut out.

I try to broach the subject again as she stacks my plate high with mashed potatoes. I cannot calculate the horrific dent in my month’s weight-watchers points the last two days have inflicted. God must intend me to have love handles. Still, not everyone should be designed to play Ophelias and chestless Violas. "Wow, this stew is sensational!" I am chewing on something I am sure was once dog meat.
"Well it took a lot of work, I had to do everything last night you know, it really does take some preparation." I try to eat what is on my fork and nearly choke. I’ve just bitten into a teabag. "Don’t eat the bouquet garnet love." I want to demand of her why it was on my plate to be eaten, but I am not going to let the simmering pot of my frustration boil over and overcook my goose.
"Ah, is that what it is, it has added super flavour mum, really,"
"It’s nice to know one of my daughters can still appreciate my food, that one isn’t a green freak."
"No fear of that." I let silence reign for a bit, I am hoping she will say something promising.
"I have been thinking, about Peter,"
"Oh yes?" - must seem innocent, controlled,
"Well looking through that profile" she chews, "I thought of you."
"Really?" - I love you mum,
"Yes,"
"Well...?"

"His son is single. He’s interested in the arts, about your age, I never really saw it before but you’d be perfect for each other now wouldn’t you? I’ll send you the link to his profile and you can see for yourself. I mean it’s been a dreadfully long time since you had anyone else nice. I do worry you know; all those late nights coming home alone. You could do with a nice young man like Rupert."

A piece of dog meat stew hits the wall; gravy is coming through my nose.