A Star Is Born

My name is Kirsty Heath, formerly known as Kirsty Elizabeth Scott—yes, I had a rebrand. I was born on the 6th of September 1974 in the north of England, where it rains approximately 362 days a year. My father was Scottish, my mother English, and I was the only girl, sandwiched between two older brothers who considered me their personal experiment in endurance training.

Dad was a civil engineer, which sounds very fancy, but to me, it just meant he lived in Saudi Arabia most of the time, building oil pipelines and missing out on the daily chaos of raising three children. He only came home a couple of times a year, like a Santa Claus who traded presents for awkward reunions. He had this grand plan for all of us to move to the Middle East, promising sunshine, adventure, and a better life. But Mum, ever the realist, was having none of it. She didn’t want to leave my grandmother alone with my grandfather, who had a bit of a Jekyll-and-Hyde thing going on. As a husband and father, he was… let’s just say, challenging. But as a grandfather? Pure magic. Literally.

Take, for example, my "magic purse." It lived at my grandparents’ house, and every time I visited, there was money inside it. Like a tiny, bottomless ATM that required no PIN. My grandad would take me to the shop for "spice"—which, in our dialect, meant sweets, not an illegal trade deal. I adored my grandparents, both sets, and was lucky enough to have them in my life.

By the time I was four, Mum and Dad had separated, but honestly, it didn’t feel that different—he was already more of a rare guest star than a series regular in my life. Mum told me that the night I was born, he actually cried because he finally got his little girl. This was, of course, a major improvement from the births of my brothers, during which he fainted in the delivery room and had to be dragged out by his feet.

Even though he wasn’t around much, I was a total daddy’s girl. My brothers and I used to record ourselves singing and telling bad jokes, our first attempt at a family comedy troupe, and we’d send the cassette tapes to Saudi Arabia for Dad. He loved them, laughing and crying in equal measure.

One of my earliest (and most dramatic) memories of Dad was when he showed up at our house completely unannounced, dressed in full Arabic clothing. Face covered, looking very mysterious. Naturally, I had no idea who he was and was probably a breath away from launching a full-scale toddler panic attack. But then, with the flair of a magician revealing a trick, he pulled down his face scarf and smiled.

I screamed—part fear, part excitement, part "Why is my father suddenly a desert prince?" It was a moment of pure joy, confusion, and theatrical flair. And honestly, that pretty much sums up my childhood.