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.