After that first phone box encounter in past chapters, me and sister Tracy arranged to meet for the first time. I don’t remember the exact time of year; but it must have been mid-1993. I walked up The Moor, through the bustling street market to meet the woman who I was to later discover, Allah (swt) had chosen especially for me.

She had described herself as tall and wearing a scarf. I knew enough by that time to cover when with Muslims – that had been based on a previous particularly embarrassing incident that I must share with you so here goes.

You may recall the Pakistani sister through whom, having read her Qur’an and being supported like a family member in her home during my time of dire instability, I had decided to choose the path of Islam. Before that time, one evening were off on a night out together and she suggested we pop into her brother’s house for a bite to eat enroute. She happily informed me that her sister-in-law was the most amazing cook (she was). We pulled over outside a neat, brick, terrace house with crisp, white net curtains.

My then car of choice was a faded gold Austin Maestro with mud brown velour seats and black go-faster stripes that I had painted with B&Q gloss down each side (don’t even ask). It was, what we in Yorkshire call a ‘shed’, meaning it was literally falling apart; rust would shower onto the tarmac whenever it hit a dip and it had formed holes in the floor you could see the road through.

May I add at this point some detail about the attire I had chosen for our girls evening out. Having selected what could be termed as the smallest ‘little black dress’ I could lay my hands on, complemented with ankle crippling stilettos, I had considered myself to be looking the real deal. We clattered like a couple of dressage ponies up the paved path. Standing at the glazed wooden door were a crowd of children ranging from around five to twelve eagerly awaited along with a barrage of chatter, laughter accompanied by the best cooking aroma that had ever drowned my senses. I was drawn into a formal yet warm room, containing plastic clad long red sofas, wiltern carpet also overlaid with a plastic film (a normal UK South Asian practice at the time), and a boxy TV in the corner on a glass and chrome stand.

occupying the sofas were around seven or eight Pakistani men and women. Each one housed a slightly perplexed looking Aunty or Uncle. All eyes were on me. The sight of a young white girl, wearing very little, bursting into their family Jummah gathering must have been a bit of a shock.

In a split second, I had scanned the room; comparing my own clothing, with the women wearing elegant, brightly coloured Shalwar Kameez decorated with tissue like scarves. There was no sofa space left and my friend had disappeared, so I could either stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, or sit with the children on the floor. Unwisely, I chose the floor which immediately caused my already grossly short dress to ride up a further two or three inches. All eyes were politely averted as I grew more and more red-faced, fighting to persuade the skin tight material into a position of at least a bit of modesty. I of course, failed so the room descended into a kind of awkward semi-silence.

And then, out came dinner. A mix of roti baskets; soft roti wrapped in tea towels, bowls of steaming yellow dhal, keema and pea curry. Sensing my apprehension, my friend’s sister-in-law, a slim, woman with a bright smile and infectious laugh, presented me with a white, porcelain bowl she had pre-filled for me, a neatly folded roti and a drink.

Dear reader, let us now consider my situation for a moment: I was still fighting to retain my modesty and now faced the added complication of not only having to eat on the floor with no cutlery; a concept completely alien to most English people unless a picnic or finger food. Added into the mix, this was not the gentle chip-shop curry my pathetic English palette was used to, but hardcore, home cooked, chilli flooded apna food. Through the ensuing chilli tears, I vaguely attempted to use the roti as the others were, neatly tearing and scooping the curry.  What is my mind was expert tearing and scooping, manifested as bits of roti sadly floated around in the dhal, forming a sort of lumpy yellow gloop. So, I sat there on the floor. A chilli tear soaked, semi naked ‘gori’. in the ultimate apna food fail. Mortified doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Regardless of my cultural disaster, in my jahiliyah days, Allah swt had sent me to a warm, kind family who opened their hearts and their homes to me without judgement or expectation. They would become great friends and supporters over the following months as I began my Muslim me. It pains me that we lost touch over the decades that followed but I often think of them and cringe as I remember that very first visit.

So, dear reader, back to my first meeting with sister Tracy. As I zigzagged through the shoppers, I spotted a tall, elegant Muslim lady accompanied by a little girl with a shock of curly dark hair who trotted to keep up with her mother’s strides. She spotted me; immediately breaking out in a wide smile that put me at ease – to be fair I must have stuck out like a sore thumb as I had again chosen to wear my mustard yellow, half-mast donated salwar kameez (later we would laugh at my strange hybridized dress sense).

Her little girl Hannah; who must have been four years old at the time, suddenly objected to some unknown issue as we walked through town and to my surprise (as someone with zero experience of the nuances of child behaviour), flung herself wholeheartedly down on the pavement in full banshee wail; writhing around like a tortured animal. Tracy’s stride, sentence and expression didn’t break rhythm as she neatly sidestepped and continued. Sensing my confusion, she grinned and reassured me that the child was not in actual fact dying, but having a temper tantrum. Once we were a number of steps ahead, Hannah, realising that her strategy had failed, stood up and followed as if nothing had happened. This was a scene I would experience with my own toddlers years later and the ignoring tactic worked every time!

Although I don’t recall details of those first meetings, they were filled with the love of sisterhood, laughter and early steps leading to the first real bites of Islamic knowledge I had yearned for.

Tracy immediately became my mentor; something each and every new brother and sister should have the opportunity for. She still is my very best friend Alhamdulillah and you will meet her in some of my chapters. May the Almighty bless her and her family for the time and teaching they gave me – as she is a grandma now and her children grown and flown the nest.