I flicked flour at Charlie, laughing as she scooped up a handful of icing sugar and threw it at me, and I coughed as it hit my throat.
On the outside, I was laughing, but inside fear rattled me and I was secretly worrying.
I hadn't slept in a week.
I had endless nightmares and constant reminders of the fact in less than a week, i'd be leaving Rutherglen, leaving my dad, my school, my friends and moments of happiness like this far behind me. Even worse, i'd have to start a new school in London, and i'd be known as the new girl with the weird Scottish accent. It wasn't even a half hour drive away from my current life; London was in a different country with different accents and people and ways of doing things to Glasgow.
I was dreading it.
My parents split up when I was three, and looking back I can see why. My mother is very bossy and my dad lives each day as it comes, which I later found it was the reason for the split- a clash of opinions and unfixable differences. I know theyd've been able to go their seperate ways and live two parallel lives, never meeting without the need to speak or even see eachother again.
Their only problem was the three year old with freckles and shoes with buckles that put a stop to any plans they had.
Well, not exactly.
Mum decided to escape the home we lived in and moved an hour or so away into Central Glasgow, wheres she could live out her dream life of a high flying business woman, Milan one week and New York the next. I don't know what she does and I've never been interested.
Then she moved out of Scotland and into London.
I don't remember ever being asked if i wanted to go with her, and at the time I was angry as England sounded a whole lot more interesting than Scotland, and I'd pore over the internet at everything and anything to do with it. I went through a phase of being obsessed with Amy Winehouse as she was my idol of a typical Londoner, and I'd hope one day my mum would swoop in and take me to where she lived. And then one day, that stopped.
I think it was the year when an excited 11 year old me ran downstairs the morning of my birthday, awaiting my huge pile of cards from assorted friends and family, as well as my presents (I was a lucky kid) and my dad knew my mums writing and would place the card alongside the jiffy bag I recieved every year at the top of the pile. I think he'd written to my mum at the time, or else she just knew, but in the card would be a postcard of a London sight, as well as the usual 'Happy birthday Ally, Love Mummy' and i'd grin from ear to ear showing my dad and Lucy my cards, and then later tearing open the jiffy bag to reveal usually clothes- pyjamas, a skirt, a flowery printed jacket.
But on my eleventh birthday, there was no jiffy bag, or card.
I waited for weeks. Nothing came.
Anger built up inside me.
And I suppose, its still there, as every birthday since i've woken up to nothing.
