Shazia Mirza: Diary of a disappointing daughter

I am in Stockholm, by myself. I have come here for a few days to do some shows. My phone hasn’t rung for three days. Not a missed call, not even a wrong number. Even my bank hasn’t done its regular check to see if I withdrew some money from a cashpoint in Nigeria. No friends and no family have called.

My mum usually calls every day, sometimes five times. If she doesn’t leave a message, there is usually a missed call. It feels good to be in solitude. I have friends and family who cannot live without “noise” around them. They need people there all the time – even if they don’t actually like them.

I’ve enjoyed being cooped up in this nice hotel by myself. Although the transition is strange: not speaking to anyone all day, then getting on stage and performing to 500 people. I get more excited than usual, talk them to death and regret it afterwards.

The same thing happened this morning. When I left the hotel, I bumped into the cleaner. All she did was say hello and I proceeded to tell her everything. How I had stolen the soap and the flip-flops with Hilton Hotel written on them, but I didn’t mind the logo and that my mum would still wear them. I also told her I had stolen the paper and pens, and how much it annoys me that the hangers are now attached to wardrobes so they’re not movable.
“Are you OK, madam?” she asked.

That’s when I realised, it’s good to talk. But you have to pace it.