Debbie Johnson - Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

I suspect it’s a sign of some kind of mental breakdown, so I keep it secret, tucked away in a Tesco carrier bag in my underwear drawer, only getting it out at night. It’s rarely seen, but always nearby – usually under the pillow he slept on (and yes, it did take me a very long time to allow my mother to strip the bed linens as well), or on particularly difficult evenings, cuddled up in my arms like a big, fleecy cat. The smell is faint now, barely there – but it’s comforting anyway.

That night had definitely been a full-on fleecy-cat-cuddling kind of night, and I finally fell asleep after half an hour of Very Deep Thinking. About Lizzie. About Nate. About me. About our future, and what it might hold. About starting a new job tomorrow. About meeting Cherie Moon. About Matt. About the fact that Jimbo was so very old. About that scene in Casino Royale where James Bond is in the shower comforting a trembling Vesper Lynd and manages to be really sexy even though he’s fully clothed … at that point, I suspect I drifted off into a happier place.

I was still cuddling my fake David, but he wouldn’t mind. He’d always respected my relationship with Daniel Craig.

I’d slept surprisingly well, which was perhaps a result of the wine intake, and now I’m awake. Groggy, but awake. I glance at my watch on the cabinet – 9.38am – and give David a quick ‘good morning’ smile.

I stretch out, swipe the sleep out of my eyes and get out of bed. I carefully wrap my precious dressing gown up in the carrier bag and tuck it under the pillow for later.

I go for a morning tinkle and then tiptoe to Lizzie’s room. I push the door open, just a teeny, tiny bit, and see her there. She’s splayed across the predictably flowered duvet, one pyjama-clad leg under and one leg hooked over, and her hair is a mass of tangles against the pillowcase. She’s still fast asleep, her eyelids moving slightly as she dreams, her lips open. She looks about ten years old, and my heart melts. Still my precious baby girl. Especially when she’s asleep.

Today, I promise myself as I head for the shower, is going to be a good day. It will be positive and exciting, and fulfilling. And I will do my very best not to end up in any ridiculous situations that give Lizzie the opportunity to document my downfall live and online.

‘Mum!’ shouts Nate, as I am busily burning toast in the kitchen. ‘There’s a picture of a strange man in the downstairs loo!’

I frown, throw the irredeemably black slices into the bin, and go to see what all the fuss is about. I make a mental note to dash back in time to turn the new, improved toast over on the grill. Some cook I’m turning out to be – completely flummoxed by the lack of a toaster.

I knock politely on the toilet door, because despite the fact that I carried this small person in my own body for nine months, Nate has become quite private since his twelfth birthday. When I have time, I feel a little worried about it – he’s at that age where there is probably a lot of stuff going on with him; a lot of boy stuff, which he obviously doesn’t want to talk to me about. So I tread carefully, let him know I’m available and don’t barge into the bathroom.

He pulls open the door and points in something akin to wonder at a framed black-and-white photo that’s hanging on the wall over the cistern.

At that point, Lizzie also comes in, her hair doing the Macarena over her face, phone in hand as usual. Just to complete the set, Jimbo pokes his way through our legs, sniffing at the toilet rim and wagging his tail so hard he’s whacking the sides of my thighs like a carpet beater. It’s suddenly very crowded in the downstairs loo.

‘Who is it, and why’s he there? It feels weird having him watch me while I pee …’ says Nate.

I stare at the picture: at the long hair, the leather trousers and the arrogantly handsome face.

‘It’s Jim Morrison,’ I reply. ‘He’s from a band called the Doors, and they recorded a song called the “Hyacinth House”. I’d thought perhaps Becca was over-stretching to assume the cottage was named after it, but it looks like I was wrong …’

Lizzie pushes to the front of the crowd and gazes up at Jim. Poor dead Jim, one of the brightest stars of his time, now performing in front of an audience of three (four if you count the dog) in a very small lavatory.

She closes the wooden lid and climbs up on it, so her face is right next to the photo.

‘Nate!’ she says, passing him her phone. ‘Take a picture! This is so cool – Becca did me a playlist that had the Doors on it. That song about people being strange. Come on, Nate, I can’t stand on the bog all day. Take the bloody picture!’

She does that strange fish-like pout that seems to be a legal requirement of teenagers’ photos the world over these days, and Nate takes the picture.

‘Is that for your Instagram account?’ I say, as she clambers down from the toilet lid. There’s a brief pause, where she looks twitchy and nervous and then tries to hide it. Caught between being a little girl who doesn’t want to get into trouble with her mum and a rebellious teen who wants to stick two fingers up at me.

I remind myself of what Becca said and remind myself that she was right – Lizzie didn’t want to come here and I did, in fact, force her to. If the only thing she has power over is taking crazed selfies and embarrassing pictures of me, I can live with it – it’s a shedload better than an eating disorder, that’s for sure.

I’m interested to see which way she’ll go, and can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain. In the end, she just shrugs, face neutral – not apologising, but not being aggressive either. Clever girl.

‘Yeah. Is that all right?’ she asks. She obviously knows now that I’ve spoken to Becca, and may be feeling a little anxious about my next move. Carefully, I also maintain a neutral face. We’re both trying very hard to be Switzerland, here, which is perhaps the best we can hope for.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Apart from taking photos of people who aren’t in the family. Like Matt. If you do that, you ask their permission to share, okay? You can’t invade people’s privacy like that. It’s not respectful.’

She nods, agreeing to my terms, and I feel jubilant inside. Like I have negotiated a peace treaty that has ended all conflict in the Middle East, and should now be made the chairman of The Entire World.

‘Mum!’ shouts Nate, sniffing the air, ‘I think that toast is burning again …’

Aaagh, I think, dashing out of the toilet, tripping slightly over the dog’s arse and running towards the kitchen. Perhaps being chairman of The Entire World can wait until I’ve mastered turning bread brown without starting a fire.

I give up on the toast and we all eat cereal. Cherie has kindly left us a little welcome pack of butter, milk, coffee, a few other bits and bobs. Plus a giant box of Sugar Puffs, which is strangely enough the kids’ favourite – an excellent guess from the mysterious Mrs Moon. I scoff down a huge mug of black coffee, and Nate and Lizzie guzzle some orange juice before disappearing off upstairs to get dressed. We have a couple of hours before we need to be at the café and plan to go and explore.

Having failed to cover all the mirrors up the night before, I was forced to confront myself in the bathroom after my shower. That resulted in a hefty spray of Frizz-Ease before I dried my hair, and a very light application of some tinted moisturiser. As a result, I look almost presentable and am dressed in some khaki shorts and a green T-shirt, along with a pair of Birkenstock sandals that were probably in fashion several years ago.

I take the precaution of hooking Jimbo up on his lead as we head out, just in case he decides he’s a puppy again and does a runner, and he ambles alongside us, at a plodding pace I use as an excuse to go slowly myself.