I was a love child – so why did I go off the rails?

We set off at crack of dawn to get to Dorset. I had no idea that thousands of other people would flock to the coast in the sweltering heat – as we did. It’s a Thursday – I’ve got the day off – as it seems does most of Britain.

I’m on the beach with the kids wearing a bikini with a T-shirt over the top because I’ve put on weight during lockdown; it’s all the covidcarbs. I just don’t look beach-ready – I look more liposuction ready.

But after a refreshing swim in the sea, I’m dripping wet, so I take off the T-shirt to let it dry in the sun. That’s when I get the shock of my life.

Suddenly, overhead is a helicopter flying really low – “Why’s it so low?” I ask my niece who is on the beach with us. “Oh, it’s a BBC helicopter – probably filming us,” she says. “Oh my god, no – we’re going to end up on the Ten O’Clock News at this rate,” I shout.

I run for shelter like El Chapo running from the police. I want to be very clear I was not on “that” beach in Bournemouth where people are packed like sardines. I’m holding my hands over my face so I can’t be identified as the helicopter hovers right above us.

I look down the coast to Bournemouth in horror – from afar it looks like locusts packed along the beaches. It’s heaving with half-naked bodies. How about social distancing? Oh god, now I’m going to have Lola’s nursery on my case – quite rightly asking if I’m following government guidelines. I told them Lola was taking the day off to go to Dorset. I have a lot of explaining to do. Why did we go to Dorset on the hottest day of the year so far? Are we mad?

It was very spontaneous and I didn’t have much time to ponder it. My sister Rebecca invited us to join her at her mum’s beach hut. We travelled in convoy until my sister went the wrong way and was heading to Cornwall.

I come from a complicated family – it’s so complex I usually draw a diagram to explain it. We are all complicated mentally – not just biologically. I have only met her mum a handful of times – at christenings and weddings. But she seems so nice. Even when Lola puts chocolate handprints all over Rebecca’s mum’s new beach hut curtains and I’m desperately scrubbing them clean with wet wipes – she doesn’t seem to mind.

She’s fondly referred to as “granny seaside” and soon hands out some iced buns. I didn’t realise they are for the kids and eat half the loaf. It’s partly my way of dealing with stress – well, I can’t drink – and also to keep my energy levels up. But I should be losing weight running around after Lola, four, and Liberty, two. Perhaps it’s my hormones that are up the spout after all the IVF. My sister thinks it’s the oestrogen in the water. I suggest I buy the children ice creams and can’t resist a salty caramel cone as it seems to have won a competition. Well, it’s probably our only holiday this year – so what’s a treat? The only trouble is I end up justifying my bad eating habits every day. I just have no willpower. Am I powerless if I eat sugar? I’m always going on a diet on a Monday and then it goes wrong. Isn’t that what used to happen when I drank?

I sit down on a plastic chair at the hut – Lola and Liberty are making sandcastles with my sister’s kids on the beach while keeping two metres apart.

“Gosh, life is weird – the way it pans out,” I think to myself. Had my dad not met my mum in Madrid while married to Rebecca’s mum, I would not be here – and Lola and Liberty wouldn’t either.

It was love at first sight for my mum and dad, who were both married with young children when they met at a dinner party. During a power cut, my dad held my mum’s hand as they walked down some stairs in the pitch black – and that was it.

They tried to forget each other for the sake of their marriages and children – but it tuned out to be true love.

I was their love child; I was the one who was supposed to have no problems. My parents weren’t divorced – as was the case for my older half brothers and sisters – so why did I go off the rails?