Perhaps it was the aroma of the sea bass on my plate that brought her through all those marching pairs of legs in the Turkish market place. She stood there staring with yellow green eyes, brown-black fur pasted over bones like a badly stuffed toy. Barely more than a kitten really. I could just see her back in my Dublin flat, fatter, happier, all that rough sticking up fur all sleek and shiny. Why do I go there in my mind when I know it's just impossible? Do other people really just see a stinky smelly cat? I tossed her some fish and it was gone almost before it hit the pavement. I signalled the waiter and ordered another fish, maybe I couldn't take her home, but I could give this alley cat the best meal of her life.

My mum called it "Spanish Omelette." Never having been to Spain, I can't really speak to the validity of her claim. But it was like she had bought one of everything from the greengrocers and thrown it in. Well, maybe not everything, but there was a lot in there; potato, tomato, mushroom, onion, carrot, spinach. There was barely enough egg to hold it all together. And of course it was all organic, local, in season. We can barely pay for our one bedroom apartment but dammit that omelet had to be ethical. Even the eggs came from happy-ass chickens. It's not that I don't agree with Mum, I even admire her for it, she's more idealistic than us kids. It's just that I'd like to live somewhere less damp and smelly.

I felt as if my lungs were slowly filling with water, as if there was just less space in them for the air. Inflating them felt like pushing up a lead weight on my chest. I sucked in the air as if it were treacle, yet I was standing in a rose garden on a pristine winter's day. If the birds around me could sing and fly, why couldn't I breathe? Why was it so hard?