"Is she your only child?" The concerned mother at the gates of the maternity school asks kindly, in Italian.

"No," I snivel, searching for the pack of tissues I'd put in my bag this morning, for just this occasion. "I have a son, older, he's at primary school now, but she, she's my... baby..." What a pathetic sight I must be making. Nobody else is consumed with torrents of weeping, a snotty nose and incomprehensible words. Well, even at the best of times I'm sure the locals have enough problems understanding my Italian.

This lady is the mum of one of Charlie's new classmates. She gives the impression of someone who is always in control and knows exactly what to say in every situation. And that does nothing to make me feel any better.

"She didn't even look back!" I say it more to myself than the friendly mum.

"That's a good sign. She'll be fine, you'll see."

Comforting words but it's not Charlie I'm worried about. What happens to me now? This monumental life change has knocked me for six. In the space of ten minutes, I've come to realise that there's no going back. Everything has changed. The era of being mum to babies is actually over, before I even knew that it was an eventuality I would have to face. I'd always thought these periods of life would take time to evolve, give me space to adjust and adapt. This morning has proved me wrong.

Thanking the kind mum for her patience, Sissy and I wander off back home equally sad. It's raining and the patter of the raindrops on my yellow umbrella are drumming out a tune that feels way too happy for my emotional state.

Coming into the apartment, I let Sissy off the lead and catch her in a towel before she can shake herself dry, spraying hairy rainwater up the walls. Then I sink to my knees and cry. I miss my baby so much. It's like separating a part of me. We're so similar, not only in looks - what with our freckled skin and blonde curly hair and all - but our temperament too.

This sad state of affairs continues at irregular intervals over the next couple of weeks, the pricking of tears creeping up on me at the most unsuitable moments.

At the supermarket, I'll hear a familiar tune from my younger days playing over the sound system and it'll start me off. Pushing the swing for Charlie in the park while we wait for Simon to finish school. Even at work, if Ruben is away or the delivery guy brings in the wrong order. It's starting to get out of hand, I have no control over when the water works are going to spring up.

"Why don't you speak to Angelica about it?" Is Jack's smart advice and I take it for once, calling her round for coffee in her limited free time.

"Thanks for coming, Angie." I help her out of her coat and switch on the hallway light, illuminating the dark, grey day. "Come on through, the coffee pot's on."

"Is Jack at work?" Angelica takes off her thick cotton cardigan too, she's probably still warm from the climb up the stairs.

"Yes, Paola's taking a couple of months off, she's renovating the café so it'll be closed until the spring."

"Oh, and Jack?"

"It's okay, we've put some money aside so we can manage till then. Even Ruben's closing up for the Christmas season!"

Angelica gives me a wicked smile. "Going back down to Puglia again is he?"

"Yeah," I jump onto her train of thought, Ruben had hooked up with an aparently extremely attractive young man during his summer holidays. "I guess he wants to see if he can meet up with the wonderful Andre' again."

Settling herself down in a kitchen chair Angelica nods in agreement. "That would be my first guess too."

We drink the coffee, dipping little wafer biscuits in as we go, gossiping about people we know and talking over the change in the weather.

"I don't remember so much rain in November." She tells me. "It's going to be a very cold winter I think. Anyway, you said on the phone that you had something you wanted to talk to me about? And I am supposing it's not the weather?"

I slowly explain my fragility and she listens in her non-committed and seemingly bored manner. When I'm done she rests her chin on her hand and contemplates the rain drizzling down outside the balcony door before answering. "Did you feel this way at anytime in your life before?"

"Not that I can remember... Ah, no wait, at about the time when I started working in the pub near our house in Manchester. Do you think it could have been because of all the problems with Jack and his drinking?"

"Maybe, but I think it's more to do with...."

"But I was happy working there?" I interrupt, "And I'm happy now. Apart from the crying episodes that is. But I've got nothing to be sad about? How can I be feeling this way when I have everything I could ever want?"

"How old was Simon when you felt like this, the first time?"

Thinking for a moment, I finish my coffee then respond. "He was around eight to ten months I suppose. Why?"

"Is it not a coincidence that you haven't been feeling this way from that time until now? After your second child?"

Shaking my head I dismiss the idea. "No, post natal depression is only for the first year after the birth, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, officially. But it can be connected to the birth even at two and a half years later."

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"Perhaps you should talk to your doctor," Then, changing from her serious 'work' face, Angelica sits upright and slaps her hand palm down on the kitchen counter, making it and myself, jump. "And you have to go on holiday. Yes! This Christmas, you and Jack, take the children to parents - his or yours it doesn't matter, and let them watch the children and you and Jack have a funny time. Yes?"

I have to admit that it is a great idea. And about time we did something as a couple. Unfortunately for Rosanna and Matteo, they have already agreed to spend the holidays with some friends in Rome, so this will be the first trip to England for little Charlie and the first return one for Simon.

********

It turns out that Harry isn't feeling well enough to pick us up at the airport this time. Mum says that his battle with lung cancer, which we all thought was over with years ago, has started once more and this day is not one of his good ones. Not wanting to create a problem, we take the train instead, changing in central Manchester. Simon loves the new adventure and pretends he's on his way to a certain boy-wizard's school. Charlie is grizzly, tired out by the long hours of waiting around at airports and stations. Jack's taking it all in his stride, picking up luggage in one hand and wrestling Charlie on to his hip with the other. He's been a changed man since he gave up the bottle, i wonder if this is the real Jack I had an incling of when we first met.

I'm feeling nostalgic. Memories of Christmas shopping with Dad become especially clear as we get closer to my childhood home, tramping through the crowds in York city.

It was our own tradition. The last Saturday before Christmas, he would drive us into the city. First stop was always the baker's to get scorching hot sausage rolls to warm us up and give us the energy for the immense shopping spree. We used to get everybody's presents in one go, bringing home packages and bags as if we had just won the lottery.

We make our way through the groups of hastled parents and giggly teens to catch the bus which leads us home. Gran is watching through the curtains of the living room and instantly breaks out in ecstatic handwaving when she spots us walking down from the bus stop.

Mum opens the door, glowing in her long, dark blue dress, elegant pearl jewellery and fresh new hairdo.

"At last! I thought you'd never get here. How was the journey? The airplane okay? Oh my, haven't you grown, Simon, such a strapping young lad now. Oh, Charlie, my little angel, would you like some chocolate biscuits? I've just made..."

We make our way into the narrow stairway and do our best to answer the barrage of questioning, while unwrapping ourselves from coats and scarves like a convention of Egyptian mummies.

" Gran!" I rush into the living room to hug the old lady tightly. "You look great."

And she does. For an eighty-two year old she's sprightly and with more energy than I can remember. The movement of her smile is still a little stilted as she kisses me hello, but it's hard to place the bruised face I had last encountered on her, with this glowing happy old lady.

I tear up as per normal these days and Jack moves round me to get in the room, tutting at the predictability of my emotion. Gran holds me at arm's length and critically takes me in.

"You've lost a lot of weight, dear. You should have more fun in your life." Then, she pats my hands in hers. "Now that you're here, you can leave the children with us and you can take Jack out to the museums or something. Yes? Have a bit of time together."

Mum joins us, with a tray of hot chocolates and biscuits for her hungry grandchildren.

"Yes, that's a good idea, Mother, but don't make plans for tomorrow, Jill." She puts down the tray and goes to take something out of the sideboard drawers. "Here, this is for all of you, for tomorrow." She hands over a thick brown envelope and Jack's eyes immediately light up as he imagines it stuffed with banknotes, Italan style.

"Go on you can open it!" She waves it in front of Simon. "Be careful though, don't rip it."

Simon solemnly pulls on the triangle of paper at the back and tears it off piece by piece. With a gasp of delight, he yanks out a bunch of brightly coloured tickets.

"It's the pantomime, Dad!" He yells. "Wow, I always wanted to see it."

"Thanks, Mum," I give her a kiss on the cheek, "He's been going on about it non-stop since he saw Jack and the Beanstalk on the Internet."

"Well, this one's Cinderella so I hope he won't be disappointed."

Simon was far from disappointed. We sat in the second tier of the theatre, not too distant to hinder our view but far enough away from the cast's audience participation catchment area. Mum made the right seating choice as none of us could imagine Jack getting into being ribbed by the panto dame for nearly two hours.

My kid's enthusiasm and delight with the show was outdone by the surprisingly gleeful way that my husband became a child within the opening minutes of the first act.

"It's behind you!" He yelled out, his grown up baritone overpowering the high-pitched squeals of a theatre full of children. "Oh no he isn't!" I found myself lowering my body in the red velvet seat, sinking as small as I could possibly make myself. Covering my face with my hand spread over my cheek. Who would have known it? This great bear of a soon-to-be middle aged man, jeering and laughing like a small kid.

We have to carry Charlie around the streets after the show, fast asleep after all the excitement and pastries she's eaten. Simon is happy to step along with us as he and his father repeat the corny jokes and one liners from the panto all the way round the shops.

I stop at the entrance to the street named 'the Shambles'. Looking up at the swaying Christmas lights, I can see the top of the 'Minster', a gothic cathedral, looming over the collective building's roofs. Carol singers, dressed in Victorian costumes are grouping around the entrance to an old ginnel. To my left, the first shop window has a scene from Dickens, Scrooge and tiny Tim shaking hands. And inevitably, brought on by the nostalgic scenery, here come the tears.

Jack, who's walked further ahead down the atmospheric road, spots that I'm missing and returns to me, Charlie in carriage and Simon in hand.

"What are you like?" He says disparagingly.

My nose is starting to drip as I can't control myself.

"Here..." He let's go of Simon's hand and gives me a tissue from his pocket. "You've really got to sort this out, Jilly."

I shuffle my head in agreement. I can't go on like this, Angelica must have been right in her diagnosis.

"Get to the doctor when we get back." I know he's about to launch into one of his lectures but he can see that any reprimand now isn't helpful and changes his mind. "For Christ's sake, buy yourself some waterproof mascara, you look like a halloween mask.