Mum stepped foot, once again, in Somerset Hall. But not to broker for peace or understanding, as that was not her style.

- I know my father left something for me – she said, not bothering with having a seat – I need it now.

Indeed, her father had left a small trust for her, which she would get access to when she turned 21.

- Why would you need that now, Lizzie? I’m paying for your studies, there’s really nothing you would need the trust for, is there?

And then mum dropped the atom bomb that Margaret was about to be a grandmother and that she needed the money, to get a place to stay. Mum said she was moving to London and that was that. She wasn’t begging for anything, just asking for what had been legitimately left for her. When inquired as to who the father might be, she just said it was none of my Mami’s business.

And so, just a couple of months later, my little embryo self and my mum moved into a nice flat, in Notting Hill. I don’t really know how good my mum was with finances but I am assuming they really weren’t her major focus.

There were some negotiations, back and forth, between Lizzie and João, in regards to their relationship and to my future. João wanted to be there for me and be part of my life, but Lizzie said she had no intention of feeling trapped with another person and that she needed her freedom.

Peace talks failed and João found himself ringing the doorbell to what I guess was our flat now, somewhere close to Christmas of 1980.

It just so happened that a very distinguished lady was just getting out of a car, with the exact same purpose as him and so, in a strike of Destiny, Maggie met the father of her grandchild.

The langue franque was French, as my dad was always more of a francophone than an anglophone.

- Have you given the name any thought, by now? - my Mami asked.

Mum was in a mood for bao and had sent both intruders to fetch some for her, to the Chinese restaurant that was just next door.

- I was thinking I’d like Tomás, if it’s a boy. It was my father’s name.

- Oh, no, darling. I’m talking about family name.

- What do you mean, Your Grace? My child will bear my name.

- And that may be where you’ve got it wrong, dear João.

And so, an arm wrestling competition began, as they were both waiting on my mum’s – and mine’s, of course – bao. My father insisted his family name was perfectly valid and respectable and, as a Historian, he just went swiftly up his family tree, and gave her big names, like Charlemagne. My Mami laughed as they were, after all and unknowingly, cousins and tried to soothe him. My dad was never one to get worked up, but he was nervous about the whole situation.

Her Most Serene Grace ended up winning the battle with an argument as simple as:

- Would you like to give your unborn child an early start in life? An edge, of sorts?

- Well, of course. Who wouldn’t?

- Then let the child bear my names. Let the child bear my titles. - and before he could have another word in – Your name could weigh as much as if all of your family tree was made of gold. But you live in a Republic, the only thing it will be good for is as a mere conversation starter. Here, my name will be greeted with open doors. It is still worth something, even if it is just a name. If you truly want to start the child’s life with a fighting chance, you open the first door. The Duchy of Somerset will unlock all others.

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My dad was handed a small and still warm aluminium foil pouch, with the freshly made buns.

- And I will personally guarantee that your name and your History will not be forgotten. - she went on, unwavered - You have my word, Mr Sousa.

And so, it was settled over some delicious bao buns, that I would be a Blackburn de Mercoeur-Vêndome von Saschen-Coburg und Gotha. The next heir presumptive in line, for the Duchy of Somerset. My mum couldn’t care less, as long as that was the full extent of my grandmother’s interference. And also, that way, the focus of the title inheritance would shift from her permanently. Win-win.

In January, my dad fulfilled his promise of getting a job to help with future baby bean’s expenses. The only problem was that the job would take him all the way to Macao, where he would be working as an attaché for the Portuguese government.

In March, my mum asked her doctor if she could still take a trip, as her term was nearing its end.

- Certainly – the doctor said – Just don’t exert yourself and stay close to a hospital, in case you need it.

She did, in fact, stay close to a hospital, but it just so happened to be the São Januário Hospital, in Macao. After an over 24-hour trip, between flights and transfers, she knocked on my dad’s door, almost giving him a heart attack, when he saw his very much pregnant lover at his doorstep.

- You’re insane!

- I thought you might want to be there – she just said, with a wicked smile on her pretty face.

And so I was born, on the last stretch of March 1981, in Macao. I was named Eleanora Beatrice Victoria Alexandria.

The mystery remains if my mum’s love for all things Italian Renaissance was somehow blurred by tiredness or if it was just my father who got the name wrong, because I ended up Eleanora and not Eleonora. Maybe a slight intermingling of Eleonora and Eleanor, who knows? But what’s done is done, right?

Beatrice is an obvious nod to Dante’s beloved, the one he would go through Hell for, his own model of perfection. The Victoria Alexandria part still baffles me, though. I believe that, despite my mum’s ideas, she was still able to admire a strong feminine figure, like Queen Victoria had been.

The permanently enlarged pupil in my right eye was already there when I left the womb’s motherly embrace. The doctors thought I could have suffered some sort of brain damage and I lived in the hospital for two weeks, undergoing every possible exam under the sun. But the anisocoria was there to stay.

My dad said that it felt auspicious that I was honouring Bowie from birth. My mum couldn’t be bothered, as long as I was healthy. After all, I had all my limbs and a head with, hopefully, a functioning brain in it, so all was good.

In fact, I believe it was the anisocoria that put me on the rock and roll path early on. It was, after all, thanks to it that I took coke for the first and last time in my life, in the shape of eye drops. And maybe it has saved me a lifetime of addiction, as it made me able to say been there, done that, even if I did not get the t-shirt.

My right pupil never really changes size, nor does it react to light. When it’s dark, you can barely notice it’s there but, under the flashing lights, the difference is striking. And it does impact my vision, so much so that I am not allowed to drive. But my brain is fine. Or so they say.

Mami took the first flight all the way across the world as my dad called her, breathless, to say it’s time! She stayed with us for two months and, having both those very important women in my life in the same space was, obviously, a very delicate time bomb. She left when the bickering became too much to handle, but only under the promise that my mum would not keep me there forever.

We went back, mum and I, two months later. It was the first time that I stepped – even if I really was just being carried – on British soil.

A few months later, my 20-year-old mum was starting to have some of her freedom issues. After all, a child is one of the heaviest ball and chains for one to drag around, is it not? Mami made a bold move, suggesting I could spend the weekends at New House, and my mum could at least take the weekend off and have some real conversations, with some real adults that could do more than just babble. She would have her freedom, and Mami would have her granddaughter to swoon over for a couple of days.

I always considered myself a wanderer and that might stem from those times. I was conceived in Spain, I unknowingly travelled through France, into Italy, Britain… Went for a spin in the far-East and came back to the island, where I managed to have two houses, under the age of one and still ended up going to Portugal, to meet an army of distant cousins and aunts, which left me terribly upset with all the attention that was given me – seriously, if you’re from anywhere in Southern Europe, you’ll understand what I mean.