The train stops with a jolt at Finchley Road station. The 10:30 on Saturday always does. Those of us versed in the nature of the London Underground are unphased by it, but the two yanks are taken completely by surprise and land arse-first on the floor. I can't help but grin. It's life played out in a brief few seconds; you spend your time trying to pretend that whatever you're doing isn't as shit as it seems, then something comes along and makes it worse.

I disembark, still grinning and climb the graffiti covered stairs to see daylight again. When I get to the top I'm delighted to see that it is pelting it down. Although this means I have to slog through the rain for about ten minutes before I reach my destination, it means that the two yanks really will get the full "London Experience". Who says I'm not caring?

I walk the ten minutes and eventually arrive at my destination. I ring the doorbell on the small, almost picturesque house and shortly the door opens. Mother looks at me with the same mix of disappointment and tiny twinge of happiness that she always uses when she sees me. Happiness that I've come to see her, disappointment in everything else about me. "Morning Mary" she says "The kettle is already on."

I follow her inside and immediately ask if I can use the toilet. I have to ask this before she starts telling me what a screw up I am, because once she has started I wont have a chance to say anything else all morning. She waves at the stairs saying "Go ahead" and bustles into the kitchen to make tea for us both. The woman never could grasp that I only drink coffee, and no number of untouched mugs of tea will convince her otherwise.

I climb the stairs and go into the tiny bathroom. My parents had moved house after I left, but hadn't been prepared to buy any new furniture, so every room looks like a bad imitation of the rooms in their old house. I can hardly stand to be in here, because on top of the disgusting almost-similarity to my old house the room is far too small and makes me choke up with claustrophobia. I lock the door and wrench open the medicine cabinet. Inside is the only reason I keep coming here every weekend. I grab the bottle marked "Prozac" and shake one of the little tablets out.

 I gulp it down without water and look at myself in the mirror. In the moments before the drug takes effect and I drift away from the world I briefly wonder if it really is worth this just to avoid the cravings. I lose my whole Saturday to absently sitting there while my mother tells me how terrible I am all to avoid missing my weekly does of her drug.

I had missed out on it one week a few months ago when my mother went away for the weekend, but I spent the whole time until she got back unable to think of anything but the drug. Surely the cravings couldn't last much longer though, I only take it once a week. If I put my mind to it I could stop having to go through this...

The drug takes effect, and suddenly it doesn't matter anymore. I go downstairs and sit with my mother, merrily gazing at her while she says stuff which I can never remember. Happy days.