My Muslim marriage is no different to Mohammed's

It's biblical," said Benjamin, the Yemeni-Israeli who runs a fabric shop on Goldhawk Road. I had gone in to find something nice for my one-week-old niece, born in Paris, and I was already delayed due to the bad weather and Eurostar cancellations.

I like buying well thought-out presents that do not cost a fortune: I live near Shepherd's Bush and am interested in all things multicultural. A bit like my ex-husband, Mayor Boris, who can "out-ethnic" most people, I am British but from Welsh-Scottish ancestry on my dad's side and Italian-Catholic (Sicilian-Roman) and Sephardic (Anconan-Turinese) people on my mum's.

I don't have a regular job but I do teach every week in a mosque in Forest Gate, east London. I leave Westfield at the Shepherd's Bush end and emerge to a rapidly developing Westfield-esque Stratford. Then it's the bus, either the 86 or the 25 (the most fare-dodged route in London, apparently, but that's probably because it goes up to Oxford Street). Fifteen miles separate my home from the mosque — it's more like the 3,700 between London and the Punjab.

I've been giving art classes for women and then for children since January 2005. It all started with a fantastic job opportunity for "visionaries" from the Quaker Rowntree Foundation. The application required a five-year plan and by the time I was rejected as a visionary, I had already embarked on teaching a women's design and English language class at Minhaj-ul-Quran. Prospects looked interesting so I just carried on. If I had not already been teaching there, it would have been difficult to approach the mosque after the paranoia generated by the London bombs. Even in early 2005, I had the door slammed in my face by a mosque in Plashet Road, West Ham; unfriendly was the reception given me when I offered free classes for women, saying I represented nobody but myself.

I have very much enjoyed familiarising myself with Pakistani culture and recently married a Lahori — much to my family's general and unexpected chagrin. His family know nothing of it at all. My younger brother was offended that I kept referring to "whites", my mum accused me of spoiling her Christmas by announcing my marriage to "that one" on Christmas Day: she was/is sure that I am heading for a nervous breakdown and divorce and that the rest of the family will have to pick up the pieces.

My older brother asked me if I had converted; he also said he would be there for me when I broke down, for which I thanked him. Then we embarked on talk of the cosmos and quarks, which was a blessed relief. My closest Italian cousin asked me (very fondly) if I was on a bipolar high. My dad was very annoyed, saying he'd only tolerated "him" (the Muslim) because it had kept me off the booze. Nobody asked his name, whether we were happy, what our plans are and what his livelihood is.

The fact is that we got married in a mosque and then in the register office. The former was important to my husband, the latter to me. As I'm 45, there is a large age difference, observed older brother correctly and confrontationally. The upside is that my husband, who is 23, has got all his own teeth, a fine head of sleek hair, an excellent degree and an optimistic approach untainted by the jaded confusion of Western urban life. I know where he comes from and am satisfied as to our mutual compatibilities. Furthermore, I know that when I'm old, he'll be in a position to look after my needs. At my current ripe/mature/middle-aged stage in life, I realise that I am unlikely to conceive children so we have agreed that so long as he chooses a good partner, then I am happy to live together in an extended family. There are sure to be many art workshops

It is not so far removed from the Prophet's own life (PBUH — peace be upon him, and no, I have not converted).

It will be remembered that Mohammed married Khadija, a woman in her forties, when he was in his mid-twenties. She remained at the forefront of his prayers well after her own death. The Prophet said it was OK to marry up to four women if you could guarantee them all quality of life, including livelihood and emotional support. He was assiduous in his attention to women (he abolished girl sacrifice) and insisted that it was a duty not only to smile but also to keep oneself scented. He appears also to have been keen on his followers keeping their pubic hair in trim, a practice which would surely bring joy to many women (and men) in the West.

Back on Goldhawk Road, Benjamin and I had soon entered into discussion and I went into the back of the shop where I admired photographs of him dancing the tango, and also pictures of the Dead Sea and of Tel Aviv. In exchange, I wondered whether he would accept my Christmas wishes in the form of a card announcing an exhibition of children's artwork from an east London mosque entitled A Flower from every Meadow from a verse by Hafiz.

"What has made me deserve this honour?" asked Benjamin.

"You have given me discounts in the past," I replied.

He is keen that I should get Boris to dine in his kosher pizzeria in Edmonton. In return for my Christmas card, he gave me a handsome discount on a lovely piece of puce plasticated fabric which will see through my niece's nappy changes for the next 12 months.

Naturally the presents I took to Paris (with 27 hours' delay) were outshone — except for some drawings from a relative stranger, and a blessing from a complete stranger, a beggar woman from Romania via Padua (my mother's place of birth). Not that I minded, given that brother was busy with the newborn. It is strange that my younger brother Orlando, now a 35-year-old artist named after the paladin of La Chanson de Roland, should have been offended by my referring to the whites. In Forest Gate, where nearly everyone is brown — apart from the Angolans, the Ghanaians and the whites who haven't moved to Dagenham — there is definitely a divide between the blacks (the kale), the brown people (the desi) and the whites (gore).

I have also acquired other names along the way. I am now Allegra Dilshad Farha Raji Sheikha Jaan Khan Kali Gori. It is indeed an epiphany — and today is the Christian Orthodox Epiphany.

A Flower From Every Meadow, an exhibition of paintings by a collection of multicultural artists including children (from 2 February) is at 12 Star Gallery, 8 Storey's Gate, SW1.