Perpetuation

The morning has settled on grey. Is it really four years since I turned forty? I make a couple of wrong turns before finding the parking lot. By the time I apply the hand brake drizzle has coated the wind screen in an infectious sheet of transparent spots. How could it be otherwise on the 25th November?

The foyer of the cinema is empty. I collect my ticket from the machine and make my way to the overpriced refreshments. Is it wrong to buy a small carton of salted popcorn at 10.20 in the morning? No, of course it isn't. I take my VIP seat. The backs of the chairs in front look like rows of teeth; only two more people enter - a father and daughter with a giant carton of popcorn - and sit directly behind me. Do reservations really matter when the auditorium is this desolate? I regress in the cinema; after the performance I find bits of popcorn stuck in the woollen fibres of my cardigan and squashed and warming between my legs. It's made my innards feel sore and bloated. What does it do in there? Bounce around like lottery balls? My mouth feels dry.

When I enter Coco's I regret stuffing my face with a bucket of exploded carbs. I am not hungry. First I order one of Teddie's infamous chai lattes. The sugar perks me up. I take out the novel from my bag and begin reading sneaking glances at the other customers sat at the tables around me. I find myself repeatedly drawn to the double-knotted fuchsia scarf tied around the neck of a woman sitting on the other side of the cafe. Blimey, the thing's a visual overdose. On the table next to me sit four grey haired Scandinavian men chatting amiably in their native tongue.

It hits me after a few mouthfuls of halloumi and sweet potato tart - a feeling of deep perpetuation; that my mother passed though my grandmother, that I passed through my mother, that my daughter passed through me. The connection we women share, joined together like paper dolls. For a moment I sit blankly, taking it in, my body stunned in wonder. I think of what my mum went through on this day forty-four years ago: aged twenty-three; full of flu; isolated on the ward; no husband or family near her; struggling to push her first born out....

....and now here I am, looking out of the window at the damp and the decayed, trying to make sense of it all.

I celebrate quietly this year. A slow, peaceful day. I receive new pens, notebooks and a kindle. The weekend before Younger Dad treated me to a fabulous Indian meal at a rather fancy restaurant in Marylebone. A seven course taster menu - hotter than coals and delicately presented. I was full to bursting.

But the best part of any birthday now are Little A's hugs and happy birthdays to the best mummy EVER.
Also her tireless belief that I'm still only thirteen years old!

Rest well and have a magical holiday!

#Once upon a time - 365 Days

Once upon a time .....

One day, only a week a go, we all squeezed inside the long blue van, Younger Dad, Little A and I. It was a long long van, plenty of room for the brand new double mattress and away-away bags in the back, even space for monkey and doggy. A very used van; rust on the hubcaps, a small dent on the bonnet, scratches along the side of the sliding door. Witches fingernails? Or dragon's claws? Probably a swipe from a bony branch along a narrow bramble-lined road. 'It's so high up,' said Little A. It was fun with a view, even if my hips were compromised, wedged between the inflexible bookends of a child seat and door. Younger Dad drove. I read. 'Can I watch Frozen on the ipad?' a little voice asked. We were on our way to Norfolk, to Granny's; to accost the Easter bunny, to reload the van with a veritable cardboard city of Younger Dad's history, perhaps also a pin ball machine, a proper one with lights and things that go ping. And where exactly was it going to go? Next to the dining table? In the shed?...... Younger Dad pulled over, time to eat, asserted the weight of the rented vehicle, parked in a diagonal across two spaces; no messin' our family of three...

And the irony wasn't lost. A year ago, box upon box stacked ceiling-high in the living room, sucking the oxygen from the air, blocking the light from the sash windows. Dry. It made my mouth dry. And dust. In hair, on scalp, in the grooves of my palms. Masking tape stuck on the carpet, on lips, along the skirting boards. The big big move. Away from London, but not quite, still zone seven, in the north west ring of the Home Counties. Far enough from the urban cry of sirens, close enough for a curry in Brick Lane or a trip to the zoo. The best decision ever made.

The hob didn't work, the fridge broke down, there were ants and leaks and damp. A garden choked in weeds. And we loved every minute of it, even if it was the coldest spring, and half the new living room was for months an unpacked tower(s) of books and records and unnecessary jetsam. Little A began a wonderful pre-school, will begin the primary school six doors down the road this September - a sky blue uniform, a brand new adventure - with her favourite friends and cousins. So good living near family now, for a cup of tea, a chat and a shoulder; a palpable belonging. I pulled out the dandelions and the creeping buttercups, replaced them with lavender and snapdragons, terracotta pots and ornaments. A garden to sit in, feel proud of, the hollow curlink-curlink sounds of the wooden wind chime hanging from the arm of the silver birch. I wrote. A lot. Pounded through the first draft of a novel, tapping away at the window table of the bestest local cafe ever - like evoooor - eating slice after slice after slice of cake. We have celebrated birthdays, held parties, and relaxed in the warm fuzz of a lazy first Christmas. Now we have ambitious plans; to extend outwards, to build upwards, to make our mark, to stamp the interior in the colour of three different personalities; to make our house a family home. And here I am. Calm(er) and quiet. Myself.

The pinball machine never made it, beyond repair. Never mind eh? But many boxes did, arranged against the living room wall. Piles and piles of old music and technology magazines. A twenty five year old computer. Degree course work. The milestones of Younger Dad's life. When we arrived back from Norfolk, a cloud burst had deepened the colour in the garden; pea green grass and roaring pink clematis, like the rich fondant centre of a strawberry chocolate. Is this what shamans see? Home. Home. Home...

The All Dayer

Beth looks surprised to see me so early this morning; I have a long day ahead of me. Breakfast. Lunch. Cake. I settle myself at a table, plugging the laptop into a wall socket behind the bench. Today I'm not sitting at my favourite window seat, I can't have any distractions - not cars or lorries or passers by in lurid yellow jackets - I have to get my head down, finish the final chapters of my novel; it's taken far too long. So I decide on a small square table near the counter instead; tempting croissants, scones and teacakes behind the curved glass panel. I'm hungry.

I overhear a conversation on the table opposite. A stocky bloke has had his working day cut short. He began at six, crashed his van, has to spend the rest of his hours getting the damage sorted. What a shame I think, to have the day turned over like that, like a spoilt pancake. I am curious about the pile on his plate. Quesadilla, poached egg, avocado, round fat slices of chorizo sausage. I change my mind. I can't have toast. I can't have porridge. I need protein. 'Beth, can I have eggs benedict with bacon please?'

...Eggs ben, yummity yum. Thick comforting hollandaise sauce, yolk soaked muffins; this will fill the spot, just the ticket for the words ahead.

Coco, the chocolate brown labrador, insists on curling under a table next to mine. I have to mind my legs, wouldn't want to squash her soft splayed paws. Coco is an old, sad eyed dog; the cafe's mascot and namesake. She lifts her head, her legs, and takes a lumbering stroll about the place; under tabletops, the odd sniff of a chair leg, flops her body back down, expends a doggy sigh.

A mother makes herself comfortable with her fourteen month old toddler. A wriggly pig. Her daughter won't sit still. She smiles a mouth of sharp front baby teeth, giggling, tapping on her mother's ipad, prodding it like a puddle of mud. We are all enchanted by her, the way she points at a cup, and spits out tested syllables. They don't stay long, time for a play in the park...

By lunch time I am lost in nouns, verbs and sentence structure. Customers come and go. I pay little attention, if any, to their shapes and textures; only the vague hubbub of chatter around me. I need something simple. I look up at a black board on the wall. Soup. That's what I'll have. Vegetable and white bean soup. Lower on calories, a compliment to the morning's egg fest. Slurp. Tap. Slurp. Tap. I can write more this way... but it's not as easy as it looks; I have to wipe thick gloop off the keyboard several times.

A group of tanned women, dressed in bright lycra and track suits, talk exercise and detox. I feel guilty. When was the last time I did yoga? Surely it wasn't three days ago? I don't care. I will have a slice of cake. I will. I will. I will...

A three year old jumps up and down on his sister's pram. She screams with bubbles and delight. His parent's don't seem to mind, he's entertaining his sister, a window for proper chat. The pram wobbles, making an unsteady lilt to the side. A parental hand stabilises the carrier. 'Stop that,' a voice reprimands, 'stop that right now.' I need another cup of tea.

A pit stop. The cake. A moist slice of lemon and blueberry drizzle. An all time favourite. Tart in my mouth, crumbling on the plate, fuel for the afternoon. I order an extra mug of hot chocolate; forget the calories, I need the word count...

And I don't leave until Coco closes, until I'm past two thousand words.

If you like my writing, you could do two wonderful things for me (pretty please);
1. Vote for me in the MADS (best writer). 2. Preorder my anthology, Seasons Of Motherhood (published in March). Thank you. 

Cakes In Coco

Every week, on either a Wednesday or Thursday, sometimes both if I have enough loose change, I sit at my favourite table in Coco's Cafe, the one by the window. This is my writing spot. I will happily spend a whole afternoon in Coco thinking, writing, watching the world go by.

Lunch time today is packed, every bench and chair taken, loud chatter cutting through the mouth fulls of food...

...Women. Coco is full of women. I like the company of women, their full undulating tones; a sweet flavoured backdrop as I sit behind the lid of my laptop. Mothers. Friends. Business meetings. An eight week old infant in spotty baby gro is passed around, from arm to arm, bottle teat pushed between her tiny lips, suck, suck, suck. Happy. Milky. One man sits alone at a small circular table in black suit and striped purple shirt, he also has a laptop. They come here, the creative types.

In the afternoon it will quieten, will almost have the place to myself, imagination given full rein to gallop, to roly poly like a hard boiled egg. I find I write more productively with the background hum of conversation and music; today, it's Stevie Wonder, Superstition is playing, I L.O.V.E Superstition. My shoulders shake and sway to the rhythm; I must look a little odd. And I zone out, in a good space, focusing on the job. At my favourite table by the window - views of pitted tarmac and semi detached homes - I have somehow managed to climb a few literary peaks over the last year; prose that has elasticity (I hope), solid word counts on the beleaguered story (nearly there now).

I bring Little A to Coco. Any excuse for cake. Her regular tipple is a child size hot chocolate, milky, covered in tiny marsh mallows. A frothy chocolate moustache on her top lip.

Coco is all about smiles and friendship and warmth. I'm like a pub regular. 'What time do you call this?' says Beth with a wry grin, 'you're late today, look your table is free.' Lovely Teddie takes my order, and later, Kim does her damnedest persuading me with another slice of hummingbird. No, I'm already stuffed to the rafters. It's good service in here...

Today I had a plate of gorgeous colour; a scotch egg, it's yolk, yellow like buttercups, still runny, oozing over the plate, accompanied with rocket, salsa and purple salad. The main event, desert, a mini coffee and walnut cake, washed down with a mug of tea, a detox infusion.

This fabulous little cafe has become an important part of my daily life, my writing life. And this got me thinking. I want to write more about the details, the minutes of the day to day, the important stuff. So I had an idea, one for a new blog series; Cakes in Coco, a moment to free style, and talk vanilla sponge; cake is always a good place to start...

Care to join me in Coco? It's situated in Croxley Green - a village located between Rickmansworth and Watford - on the Watford Road.

If you like my writing, you could do two wonderful things for me (pretty please);
1. Vote for me in the MADS (best writer). 2. Preorder my anthology, Seasons Of Motherhood (published in March). Thank you. 

Here

"GOOD MORNING. MY NAME IS DARREN. I'M YOUR LOCAL POSTMAN."

Wow - I think - they didn't make them like that in W3.

The best you got was a grunt or a half glance.

But I like Darren's friendly introduction. Sunshine on my doorstep.

It's been fourteen days since we arrived laden with card board boxes, objets d'art swathed in bubble wrap, an intrepid Little A holding bunny in her hand, and even though I've suffered a bed confining cold, that there is still so much to sort through and unpack, I feel content.

The local welcomes, the warmth, has been quite disarming at times - 'Is this her first term?', 'when did you move in?', 'you're going to like living here, lots and lots of families'.....

I feel like a big kid, itching to explore, eager to find the short cuts, the quickest route to the Metropolitan Line station - 'Croxley Green' its sign shouts proudly, in bold, white letters.  

And so far I have uncovered three long, hedge lined passage ways that open onto a new crescent or behind Little A's pre-school. In London, I would've thought twice about walking down a deserted, enclosed path such as this, the barricading foliage not quite so inviting and green, crisp packets and over-chewed gum moulded on the tarmac. But it feels safer here. Much safer. And quiet. During the day, I spy the odd mother wheeling a buggy or a pensioner in walking boots. At night, the pavements feel bereft of footprints, and on the stroke of midnight all the street lamps switch off. Just like that. And it makes me think of a benevolent granny - the corners of her mouth up-turned, kindly - dressed in frilly night cap, and billowing gown, as she blows out the flame atop a tall, waxy candle in one strong puff.

If you were with me, we would saunter up the New Road, the road that houses all the must-have local amenities - the doctors, the library, the supermarket..... the undertakers. I would show you my favourite sign post, next to the library, one of those old signs that I love, that points you in every direction, that makes you dizzy from choice. Do you need the loo? Look it's sign posted right here....

Then I would take you to my favourite haunt - a tea and cake salon named Coco. Do you have your lap top with you? Great, because this is the perfect writing spot. I've officially christened Wednesday's 'Coco Day'. I'll inhabit my little table by the window and type away on my keypad with a hot chocolate or detox tea and large slab of cake, rounded off with a bowl of homemade soup and chunk of ciabatta at midday. It's the perfect place to loose myself in a tangle of thoughts and write lists and watch people go about their day.  

I know I have moved somewhere welcoming, where I already feel a part of the furniture, the sedate momentum of life. This is the kind of place where people move, stay rooted - our immediate neighbours have lived here over twenty five years. I hope one day Little A will look back on the place she grew up in with fond memories, remembering it as home. And we are still so close to London, only a forty minute dash from friends and museums and galleries and grand shopping plazas.

The other evening, I lay on my bed, the window open, a slight breeze brushing against my left cheek, and I realised I couldn't hear the hum of the 207 or the 607 on The Uxbridge Road, or the screech of sirens rushing towards another emergency, another arrest. Instead, my ears were treated to the undulating chorus of birdsong, so perfectly clear and uninterrupted - apart from the odd passing plane - by the drone of engines and drunken voices.

Then I smiled, picked up my book and read.


This is a very belated entry in the wonderful Tuesday linky, 'Where I live', by Michelle who blogs as The American Resident.

Amazingly, unbelievably, I have made the shortlist of the Britmums BIBS Awards under the category, Lifestyle. I am so ruddy grateful to everyone who voted for Older Mum in a Muddle. Now if you would like to see me in the Lifestyle final six, then please, please, please vote for me one final time. The champagne is on me if I make it this far...... (nominations close on 12th May)

The Cafe

I'm sat in a little cafe. Coco. The only artisan cafe-deli in Croxley Green. Named after the proprietor's chocolate-brown Labrador - a docile, sad-eyed dog. I pause between thoughts to sip hot chocolate, sweet and velvety. I've always enjoyed people watching in this type of establishment. You know, the type of affair decorated with distressed furniture and tasteful paraphernalia hanging sparsely on muted walls of duck egg blue and grey. A cream-white Gerber - my favourite flower - sits in toddler-sized milk bottle on my table; I used to suck on a straw from such a bottle in '76 - a throw-back to free-milk break times in reception, dressed in a dark grey pinafore, nipped at the waist by a forest-green sash.

Today - Monday morning to be exact - Coco is very quiet. Empty. I've seen other writers on other days, thinking, tapping, drinking, blinking. And an actor type dressed in the same clothing every time. A plush maroon suit. A cravat. Jet black side burns. Side burns that point in the direction of the adjacent town - Watford. But not today. It's just me, sat at my regular table for two by the window, the rumble of moping traffic in my right ear, the soulful tones of Stevie Wonder in my left, the metallic clinking of knives and forks and spoons as the owner organises the cutlery into their respective drawers.

Over the last week this cafe has become my haven. Weekday mornings, barring Tuesday, I've been handed a calm respite, a window of tea and toast and French onion soup - from all the packing tape, card board boxes, the excel spreadsheet detailing the contents of our lives - to work on my novel. Our flat is currently a warehouse, no longer a home but a holding space, a prologue to the next act of our story. Did I forget to mention, the contracts finally exchanged? I know! We are moving this Thursday - at long last, after the arduous journey of selling and buying began five months ago. But why am I here? In Croxley Green? Now - this morning? Well Little A started her new pre-school last week, a stones throw from our soon home-to-be. You see, we had hoped to be living here by the time term began. That didn't happen. But I still thought it prudent for my threenager to settle in before we extricated ourselves from West London. An easing in to her new life, her new routine. And it seems to have worked. Little A loves her new school. In her mind, she's already moved, is a member of the local community - arrived before Younger Dad and I!

But the constant journeying up and down worn tarmac - morphing from the A40 into the M40 into the M25 - has been, at times, very trying; not helped by going to bed later than I should - it's the novel I'm reading, can't put the damn thing down. This morning I struggled to keep both lids open as we passed under the bridge that strongly advises 'give peas a chance' - I will. I promise - and over the white teeth of the speeding markers on the motorway. Over the course of the last week, my mind has mulled over these teeth, these tyre-taunting canines. In my tired imagination, they've come to resemble fish bones instead - I'm driving over the spine of a cod and now over a haddock and now a plaice. Such is the monotony of travel.

Still this is such a small price to pay. In less than three days, all this schlepping will be over.

We will be here. In our new home.

And I have promised myself that at least one morning a week I will come here, to Coco's, and sit at my table  - the one by the window - with a hot chocolate in hand and observe and write and smile.

Now if you excuse me, I have a bill to pay, a daughter to pick-up, and yet another forty minute journey back down the motorway.  

How long does your school run take? 

Amazingly, unbelievably, I have made the shortlist of the Britmums BIBS Awards under the category, Lifestyle. I am so ruddy grateful to everyone who voted for Older Mum in a Muddle. Now if you would like to see me in the Lifestyle final six, then please, please, please vote for me one final time. The champagne is on me if I make it this far...... (nominations close on 12th May)