I’m waiting for my turn to read, sitting in a large room full of people, holding their copy of the anthology. Some of them are members of the University I once attended, I spot three of my previous tutors – one of them the editor of the anthology. I’m waiting to read my story, Secondary Character to the room, among them is my mother and her two friends. The story is about my mother and grandmother. It’s semi-autobiographical. My stomach does that twisting thing, it’s beyond the battered butterflies, beyond the ocean, it’s a twist, a pull, something physical.