When I was seven years old, a small white patch appeared on the olive skin of my forehead. By the time I was 11, the patches were dotted all over my body, particularly in areas without much flesh, such as my hands, feets, kneecaps and elbows, in an uncannily symmetrical pattern: if you cut me in half, each side would show the same splashes of white.
It was the start of my ongoing journey with vitiligo,
an autoimmune disorder that occurs when your melatonin is attacked and destroyed, causing patches of the skin to lose its colour. Nobody knows what causes it, although it is believed there is a genetic component, and it affects one in 100 people
in Britain.
For me, its appearance seemed to have been triggered by the emotional trauma of losing my grandad. Since that first white spot 27 years ago, there have been times when the patches have covered huge swathes of my body – my legs turning white from knee to ankle and my face a patchwork
of pale and brown. It’s less severe now, although my hands and feet are still predominantly white, but it’s never gone away.