She was the first stranger I ever met. I was feet first, apparently. Breech.

The nurse told my father I'd taken after the family's Forces roots. That I was a paratrooper. Rare.

Something about seeing the world from upside down. A different viewpoint from the start.

She wasn't wrong.

Her name was Emma. Or Emily. Something with an E.

She didn't hit. She didn't need to. She had something worse: words.

"Your mum looks older."

Ma was older. She and Pa had me late. Second marriage for both. But she looked incredible, for her age… More beautiful than most of the mothers, certainly smarter. One of the few female entrepreneurs at the time.

But older, yes.

You can't explain any of that at six. You just feel the shame of being different.

"It's got character."

Character. The estate agent word for damp. For walls that breathe in the wrong direction. For a kitchen that's also a hallway that's also, somehow, the entrance.

"Very popular area."

Cathays. Student spillover. The place you live when you can't afford the nice bits and won't admit you're living in the not so nice bits.

She's done this tour a hundred times. The same route. The same lies. The same optimistic spin on Victorian decay.

He's been doing this commute for twelve years. TWELVE. He has wisdom to impart.

"The quiet carriage is a lie."

"The 7:14 is worse than the 7:22, but the 7:22 is standing only."

"Platform 3, Marcus'll let you know if there's delays. Nod at him. He'll nod back. That's the relationship."

Twelve years of nodding at Platform 3 Marcus. Twelve years of knowing which carriage has the working loo.

She read me in three seconds flat. "Honey, you're not fooling anyone."

I'd been at a house party pretending to be someone I wasn't. Someone confident. Someone who belonged.

"You're a watcher." She adjusted her wig in my direction. "I can spot us a mile off. We're everywhere. Corners of rooms. Edges of dance floors."

She handed me her card. "Call me when you're ready to stop hiding."

I never called. But I still have the card.

They're maybe six, seven? Twins. One is excavating his nostril like there's gold in them hills. The other has Disney villain energy. All side-eye and silent judgment.

The woman with them is patient. Too patient. Suspiciously patient. Professional composure. I assume she's the nanny.

Bogey boy wipes his findings on the seat. Disney villain catches me watching and holds eye contact like a challenge. I look away first.

As they get off they call the woman "Mama."

Oh god.

The queue is three hours. Everyone has curated their outfit. Practiced their nonchalance. This is a job interview for a club.

We get to the front.

The doorman doesn't even look up. He's sipping something. Taking his time. Finally he raises his eyes, scans us for approximately 0.3 seconds, and says

"Nah."

That's it. Nah. Three hours of queuing, undone by a single syllable from a man who looks like he's never smiled in his life.

The walk of shame past the remaining queue is the longest walk I've ever taken.

We're in a coffee shop. Think Jurassic Park kitchen scene. The bit where the raptors corner the kids. She's the raptor. He's the kid. Except he's a grown man, utterly oblivious, typing away on his laptop whilst she circles.

She's been at this for forty minutes. Strategic repositioning. Hair adjustments. The lean-in that's too casual to be casual. He hasn't looked up once.

And then the pounce. She's at his table. Gesturing at the chair opposite. He's nodding because what else can you do when a raptor asks permission?

That moment a boa squeezes and the prey relents.

I'm transfixed. This is a nature documentary. This is Attenborough voiceover territory.

Holy crap, I love watching old people flirt. All manner of hilarity. But when they flirt with young people, that, that is pure gold.

Real time: She has one hand on hip to accentuate her cracking figure. Said hip is popping like an Olympic long distance walker. Evidently Zumba is paying off. There are some hungry eyes gazing at the hot barista, currently blowing floppy hair from his face as he froths her milk.

She SMACKS HER LIPS at him as he handed her the beverage.

SMACKED THEM.

I am done. Walking. Got to keep walking.

The German word for laxative is not something I've Googled. This is a mistake.

I'm in the pharmacy. The pharmacist is staring at me. I'm doing hand gestures. I'm doing... motions. Stomach rubbing. Pained expressions. More hand gestures. Pointing downward.

She's frowning.

I mime pushing.

Her eyes widen.

"Ah! Abführmittel!"

She says this very loudly. Everyone in the pharmacy turns. I've never been more British in my life. I apologise, buy the laxatives, and leave without making eye contact with a single human.

"Black Americano please."

"Yes, that's how your coffee comes. Black. You put the milk in if you want."

"No, I mean... I want it black. That's the order. Black Americano."

"All Americanos are black."

"Yes. I know. I'm ordering one."

"So just say Americano."

"Black Americano."

She stares at me. I stare at her. The coffee sits between us, black, as all Americanos apparently are.

I add milk.

"You're the one who bought the manor."

News travels. In villages, news is the only thing that travels fast.

"From London?"

The question underneath the question. Are you one of those? The weekenders? The second-homers? The people who drive up prices and don't use the pub?

"Moved properly. Full time."

She relaxes. Slightly. The assessment continues but the worst possibility has been eliminated.

She gives me extra eggs. I don't know what this means yet.

Later, I learn, extra eggs mean acceptance.

The pub is 400 years old. The landlord is younger than the furniture.

"New to the village?"

Everyone knows I'm new. The question is ritual. The question is an opening.

"What'll it be?"

"What do you recommend?"

He smiles. Right answer.

The ale is good. The pub is warm. The fire is real.

"You'll fit in."

Will I? I've never fit in anywhere. I've always been passing through.