I'm sitting in the front seat of my mum's car, squashed by my holdall. The boot was rusted and wouldn't open, so I have to have the huge bag by my knees and am beginning to regret having packed quite so much.

I have mixed feelings about going to stay with my dad in Suffolk, as I always do. It's great seeing him, and we always do really fun things, but it seems odd. I never feel like I belong in his flat; I always feel like a short-term guest

&emdash; which is what I am really, but I don't think it should be like that. I've tried to create my space there, by leaving a dressing gown and soapbag, but it hasn't really worked so far.Also, half the time he treats me as though I'm about 13 rather than 18. If I think about it, it makes sense as he never really saw me growing up. If you added up the amount of time he's spent with me since the divorce, it probably does make me about 13.

I'm not blaming him for not being there, you understand, but it's different for us. A lot of my friend's parents who've split up still live close by, so they see them all the time. Our dad lives at the other end of the country, and we have to make detailed arrangements to see him. This usually means phone calls with me relaying messages back and forth:

'So how about on Saturday?'

'Dad says how about Saturday? Hang

my Saturday job. Sunday?'

'Fine.'

'Dad says Sunday's fine.'

'That's fine by me, too. Shall we meet at 12?'

'Mum says meet at 12.' 'I can't make it till one.'

'Dad can't make it till one.'

'Tell him one's fine.'

'One's fine.'

And so on.

But mainly it's worth it; and I do like spending time with him. His place has a very different atmosphere to the one back home in Yorkshire, which is an all-girl household.That's a lot of fun &emdash; we've got a poster of Brad Pitt on the bathroom door, and Ewan McGregor on the inside of the cereal cupboard. Then, of course, there's the standard war cry round the dinner table of 'Boys? Urgh, yuck!' when someone mentions the dreaded males.When I think of the way we live, I tend to think of a lot of laughter &emdash; well, giggles, more to the point. My mum can appreciate my dirty jokes! But she's always good for advice, too. I think I'm closer to her because of the divorce than I would otherwise have been &emdash; I can tell her pretty well anything and she won't freak. As I get older, I'm starting to feel a lot more on a level with her; almost like an equal partner sometimes. Of course, other times she makes it very clear that I'm not. That makes it a bit hard to tell where I stand.

It's similar with my dad, actually. When he's not treating me like a thirteen&emdash;year&emdash;old, he treats me as a grown-up &emdash; which is good. The trouble is he confides in me &emdash; about his money problems, work problems, life problems and so on, and they then feel like my responsibility. I can't really tell my mum about them because she's not interested; I can't tell my sister because she's too young to understand; and it's completely irrelevant to anyone outside the family.

'We're he&emdash;re!' yells my sister from the back seat.

'Here' is a service station on the Al, where we meet up, about halfway between the two houses. As we pull into the car park, I can see his car is already here, parked in the usual spot. My sister tumbles first out of the car and runs across the car park. 'Daddeee!' she squeals, flinging herself at him. I follow soon after, grinning as he grabs us both in a huge bear hug.

After we've got over the meeting and greeting ceremony, it's time to decide whether we're staying for a cup of tea or not. Apparently, today we are. As we troop in the cafe, my sister is hanging from my dad's arm and I'm walking with my mum. In these situations I'm always very conscious of my mum, even though she always stays very quiet. I feel like I need to look after her and not desert her &emdash; I'll have plenty of time with my dad at his flat. My sister never seems to pick up on things like this, which is hardly surprising because she's only 12.

Once we're inside, I have to think about seating arrangements on a table for four. My parents can't sit on the same side of the table. Not that they'd argue or make a scene &emdash; far from it. The atmosphere would just be very cold and uninterested, and pretty uncomfortable for all of us.

They tend not to have much to do with each other, even in situations like this, which means it doesn't feel like we're all in the same group. Rather, there are two groups &emdash; me, my sister and my mum, or me, my sister and my dad &emdash; that don't mix with each other. Both parents tend to bring up 'in-jokes' that they have with me and my sister, as though to shut out the other or show how much better they get on with us. We're stuck in the middle, being careful never ever to look like we're taking sides. There's so much for us to consider!

So here we are, sitting around a table, all being incredibly polite to one another and drinking tea. We're obviously staying a little longer than usual today, as we've ordered toasted teacakes. My dad tries to start a conversation.

'So, girls, what have you been doing with yourselves?'

'Not much. Working.'

'I tidied my room.

We'd like to talk &emdash; a conversation would be far better than polite silence &emdash; it's just that the words suddenly aren't there. Now it's my mum's turn.

'You'll be good for your dad, won't you, girls?'

'Yep.'

'Yep.'

We all stir our tea intently.

The four teaspoons clink loudly.

Outside it starts to rain.

'You'll be all right driving the girls in this, won't you?' This was from my mum.

'Of course, we'll be fine, won't we? And you?'

'Yes, fine.'

We go back to tea stirring. Neither of my parents seem to trust the other's driving skills much, and asking about driving conditions always seems to take up a good deal of conversation.

The toasted teacakes arrive, slightly burnt, and we can all occupy ourselves with buttering them. I decide to have a go with speech.

'Even I don't burn these!'

This attempt at light&emdash;heartedness sounded far wittier in my head, and barely raises a smile from anyone.

Silence can make people say the stupidest things. I once read about a survey someone did to see how long people will put up with an uncomfortable silence before coming out with something pointless. I think the average was about seven seconds. Obviously the participants weren't provided with tea to stir at the same time.

We finish our teacakes and stand up to leave. Back outside, we run back and forth between the two cars, transferring luggage and getting wet. Once we've finished, my sister settles herself fast in the back of my dad's car, arranging her books and toys around her. Her goodbye is conducted through the open window, to prevent anything falling out. I give my mum a huge hug and tell her to be good before she gets a chance to tell me the same! I realise I'm getting drenched, and hurry into my dad's car. My sister, desperate for the last word, reaches out for another hug through the window, then l)ad starts the car and we're off. We keep waving to Mum all the way out of the car park and around the roundabout until she reaches her turning, and only then do we feel we're on the way again.

This is so much more relaxed than in the cafe. Now we can have the in-jokes and they don't feel exclusive any more; I don't feel guilty. It's always the same; relaxed when we're with one parent but tense when we're with both. And, of course, when they're tense, we're tense.

But it's okay now. We're going to my dad's and that's always fun. I shove my Radiohead tape in the car stereo (Mum says they sound suicidal, but Dad never criticises my choice in music), and my favourite track 'No Surprises' fills the car. We drive off into the rain. Looks like it might clear up later.