Snowed Under

It's time for a spring clean - ironic really, given the snow flurrying outside, that I'm wearing an extra pair of bed socks, an additional woollen maternity cardigan hanging over my stripey jumper.

Should it really be like this at the end of March? Younger Dad doesn't seem to think so. But I can still remember the long, extended, snowy winters of my childhood - the 1970's - white Easters with big fat wet flakes settling on the lawn, hiding the purple crocuses, confusing the migrated birds - home from sunnier climes.

And so to the clean up.... not my wardrobe, or Little A's toys, or Younger Dad's pile of Which magazines, but my on line mail. For the last year or so, I've woken to the bold black list of numerous unread emails choking my inbox, a stress inducing sight first thing in the morning - How many are there to read today? Where will I find the time? - over a-would-be calming bowl of porridge (with added fruit). But today I completed the changes I've been making over the last few days - there will be no more posts raining on my yahoo account screaming READ ME, READ ME. I love the blogs I've subscribed to but it was becoming overwhelming - like piles and piles of homework. So I've moved all my reading over to Blog Lovin - please don't be offended if you see I've unsubscribed to you, I'm now enjoying your posts over there.

This evening my inbox was like a freshly mown lawn, trimmed and tidy. Now I just need to deal with the few unexpected weeds - those requests from PR's and marketers asking for endless plugs that are totally at odds with the theme of my blog. Can you see 'How to Improve Your Financial Savings' nestling along side Once Upon a Time and One Week? No. Neither can I.  

And that, sadly, apart from two delightful evenings spent in lovely female company, has been the highlight of my week. My inbox. You see, I'm stressed at the moment - very stressed. I've taken to resting as much as I can for a mummy and eating one too many M&S chocolaty bites. The house move is taking it's toll, and there has been other unfortunate news too. The move was set to take place the beginning of April but the date of completion is slipping ever in the wrong direction. And we are in the dark as to what is happening further up the chain - Have their mortgages been fully approved? Have all the surveys been completed? Our seller's solicitor is being vague with our solicitor, our buyers worry we are going to pull out, we are stressing the same of them, our seller is being unnervingly quiet - I think she's stalling, I fret about the chain staying intact... and so it goes on and on.

I dearly want to move into our new home. I love the area we are relocating to - the family connections, the schools, the slower pace of life.

If the upper chain falls apart - please, no, no, no - we have decided to sell our flat, up sticks, and rent in Croxley Green. In the meantime, if the completion date moves beyond the 12th April, I will be ferrying Little A forty minutes back and forth to her new pre-school - I've already decided I'm going to plant myself in the nearby library and write while my daughter paints and dresses up with her new friends.

I want to start sorting - organise those books that will go into storage, and the unread paperbacks that will sit on the bookshelves of our new home. I want to start packing, to hear the stretching sound of masking tape on cardboard as our memories are squeezed tightly within the boxes. Limbo. Limbo. Limbo.

Blimey, I'm wound up like a spring at the moment - which brings me back to today's unseasonal weather.

Spring - where are you? Please come soon. Come brighten up my day. Bring us hope and a house move with your sunshine. Please...

If you enjoy reading Older Mum in a Muddle, please spare a thought for me in the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards - The BIBS - there are sixteen great categories to chose from but I think I'm best placed in the writers category. You can click on the badge below to take you through to the nomination form on the Britmums page..... Thank you! X.

Limbo Land

Everything is still. Waiting. Quiet. Even the opened daffodils - big, loud, yellow trumpets - stand silently in the thin cylindrical glass vase on the kitchen table.

The fruit bowl's contents are over ripe and ageing. A pear has a squashed bottom like it's wearing a sodden nappy. Three bananas are blemished with leopard spots. There are apples - Eden's rejects - beyond temptation, their wrinkly skins predicting dry, unappetising first bites - their cores probably browning with unflappable demise.    

And I'm sat in a kind of limbo - not quite here, not quite there.

In fact we all are - Younger Dad, Little A and I.

I try to ignore the peevish whispers from the bookshelves 'pack me, pack me, pack me.' And I know how they feel - it's time to leave - to move into the new chapter of our lives, a brand new home for our family of three.   

When will the contracts exchange? It's just paper twiddling and signing dotted lines damn it. 

I am not made of patient stuff.

And Little A is both excited and confused, vacillating between 'mummy I'm going to live near my cousants (cousins)' and 'mummy I don't want to leave our flat.' There have been numerous nocturnal awakenings, although I suspect I layer her with too many warm blankets - it's hard keeping track with this mild-cold-mild-freezing weather. Then there is her concept of moving, 'mummy, can I take my toys with me when the big truck comes?' 'Sweet heart,' I reply, 'you can take ALL your toys and ALL your teddies,' reassuring her with dramatic emphasis on ALL. 'Oh sank you (thank you), sank you so much mummy!'

Yesterday, I invited her to join me in a spring sort out of her toys. Save for a few baby board books, a wooden boat, and plastic hammer and nail set, she refused to relinquish anything. Can't say I blame her - it wasn't good timing on my part. At the moment, Little A needs familiarity around her, even if it's the comforting relics she's neither seen nor played with in over two years.  

But I know she's going to be just fine...

'Hello, I'm Little A, what's your name?' She asks a platinum blond forty something woman - maybe I should go that colour? - sat to her left at the only che' che' cafe in Croxley Green.'What are you having for lunch today?' The woman turns to the little person on her right. She smiles warmly, taken aback by Little A's chutzpah, and engages my daughter about the weather and her slice of cake.

Already winning friends and influencing people.

'Mummy - loooook - I'm doing dressing up and drawing,' a shrill voice calls as I'm filling out the registration forms at her new pre-school - only a minute walk from our new home. Those contracts better exchange soon. When I look up, my eyes work hard at locating her. Ahhh there she is. I spot her in a pirates outfit painting yogurt pots alongside the other children.

She's going to enjoy living here....    

'We're seeing three childminders today,' she says to the first childminder we meet, 'can I do some painting now?' Paint brush in hand, Little A makes a colourful mess at a table in a sunlit conservatory. I carry on with the interview - she's very friendly, flexible, loaded with qualifications. Half way through, a little voice pipes up, 'can you read to me now?' The minder chooses a Barbie book - not my preferred choice - and proceeds reading about the size zero doll's morning routine.

She's not backwards in coming forwards.

'Can I have some lunch - can I have cheese on toast too?' Only ten minutes earlier, we'd arrived at the second childminder's home just as she was preparing food. 'Of course you can - settle yourself in a chair,' the minder replies. Little A sits herself at the kitchen table. She's accompanied by a baby in a high chair and the minder's very wilful daughter - same age as Little A - strapped in a booster seat. Little A is presented with beautifully cut melted cheese triangles - an alternating combination of cheddar and red leicester - positioned just so, overlapping, around the edge of the plate. In the middle, there's a delicate arrangement of salad  leaves, tomatoes and cucumber like the air is carrying them. These are toddlers you're feeding. A heated exchange erupts. 'You're strapped in... you're strapped in.... potatoes bobatoes...you're strapped in.' 'No I'm not, I'm sitting in a normal chair,' retorts Little A. 'You're strapped in.... You're strapped in.' 'No I'm not,' Little A dismounts her chair and walks to the other end of the table, 'See, look, I'm not strapped in.' The minder and I are thinking the same thing - this clash can never happen again. Ever.

She can stand up for herself.

--------------

So we have much in place - a preschool, a childminder*, the removal firm - preparing Little A for her new life as a home counties girl. But until we have the keys to our new home, we're inhabiting a sort of a domestic no mans land. Hurry up solicitors, get a blinking move on would you!

In the mean time, I'll water the daffodils and buy some fresh fruit.

*We chose the third childminder - the one with an extra assistant, well selected books and mellow pre-schoolers.

#One Week - Autumn '12 - Closer

A week ago, just after nap time, Little A and I enjoyed a peaceful moment together on the sofa. She was still in that fuggy half awakened state, her body loosely curled around mine, my arms gently embracing her drowsy form. The only sign of life came came from the slow rhythmical movement of our chests. Up and down. Up and down. The only sound, apart from the tick ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional hum from a car idly passing in the street, could be heard from the even inhaling and exhaling of our breath. In and out. In and out.

Outside, the late afternoon light waned, the grey slate on roofs just shades darker than the overcast sky, evening approaching with assured readiness. Little A slid from my lap and leaned into my side tucking herself under my arm. A soft hand placed itself tenderly on my stomach. Together we watched aeroplanes - giant airborne sharks - silently descending, their wing lights flashing in the semi darkness...

"Mummy can we hold that plane?"
"No darling, it's too big. But look at that one coming in. It's a tiddler."
"Can I hold that other one."
"No. Still too big."
"That plane can be the daddy one. And that plane can be the baby one."

This autumn, Little A has taken yet another social leap. Her world is over flowing with mummies, daddies, grannies and babies - every role playing game be it with teddies, building blocks, cutlery, aircraft, is all about family. And now she is a bigger girl, she also wants a pet."Mummy can I have a pet and a brother?" I don't quite know how to answer the part about a brother just yet.

Little A desires closer relation to everything and anything she comes into contact with, whether it's....

cuddling a bunny,

getting to grips with a tractor,

or making a new friend.

This season, Little A has edged ever closer to the world around her, taking risks, finding her limits, discovering the first ties of friendship. And our relationship has become more loving, more complex, a playing field of two wills. Little A is learning that she can be many things, a playful kitten, a fire breathing dragon, a demanding bear cub, a roaring lioness, but that her sudden emotional flights between calm and angry, content and tearfully upset, don't diminish our bond, nor my love for her.

This is the third day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next few days (until Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '12. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

Badge Code ...

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#Once upon a time - When Fog Struck

Once upon a time .....

On a somber morning, I watched from the warming comfort of a cushion plumped sofa (and with a seasonal mug of cocoa in hand) as rolls of ghost-leaden mist descended beyond the dusty pane of the living room window, thickening the bitter Winter chill. Outside, the atmospheric omens didn't look promising. The fog curdled, unmovable, hanging densely in the air, choking giraffe-necked street lamps, stroking frost bitten windows, and muffling the click-clack of heels straining direction on icy flagstones.

Today was the 31st of December, '95 on the cusp of giving sway to '96, the old year dying into a more urgent version of itself. My record box, a green flight case gilded with 'fragile' stickers, was tightly packed with analogue rushing trance, bass heavy techno, tech house, deep house, acid house, house... Each record sleeve compressed against the other like slices of prepacked ham.

I was set to play a New Years Eve DJ tour of France - one night, four gigs - that began in Paris, took in Lyons, and ended in Montpellier. And as it was New Year, I was to receive double payment for each performance - definitely an auspicious start to '96! AND, my French agent threw in a free flight for a friend. So, H - entourage, supporter, best friend - was to accompany me on this whistle stop Gallic adventure.

Then, a phone call from my English agent with bad tidings. The fog that currently, and without invitation, inhabited my street held greater ambitions, swathing ground level opaque cloud over the rest of Leeds, West Yorkshire, England, (the Universe), the English Channel and most of France. Heathrow was closed. Gatwick was closed. Charles De Gaulle was closed. Disheartened, dismayed, I was set to give up, when my French agent later phoned to offer, with hopeful spin, that Montpellier airport was still open, that although three of my gigs were now cancelled, the final one in the South of France was still on. Weather pending, New Year was partially salvageable after all. So the flight was re-directed from Gatwick (in the faith it reopened its runways) to Montpellier airport, and with that, H and I decided to risk the pre booked National Express voyage down South.  

There was not much to view from the coach window. Only the hard shoulder was distinctly visible, the one solid indicator we were moving forwards. The fog distorted all that was rounded, friendly, and familiar. Out of the cloaking gloom, architecture and nature poised to attack; sharp angles protruded, branches clawed, groping for clearer air, indicator lights cast eerie pools of dampened red and orange.

It was early evening by the time we arrived at Gatwick. The terminal was very, very empty. A select handful of flights were now operating including, with great relief, ours. Calls were made to agents, "we're coming!" Arrangements were made for the pick up at the other end. H and I ate in a very empty Burger King. We sat in a very desolate check in hall, the hours rapidly counting down to midnight. Waiting for the flight desk to open, we overheard the echoing conversation of the only other tourists, an ageing American couple, who stood protectively glued to their luggage...

"Honey, make sure you keep your bag closed."

"Why?"

"We're in a third world county. Something might get stolen."

I tried to spot a camouflaged thief in the surrounding wilderness. H and I, both taken aback, looked at each other, eyebrows quizzically raised, telepathically communicating the same thought. Were they referring to us? Do we look like criminals? We were wearing woolly hats, not balaclavas. And besides, we were flying business class, with hand luggage, not shot guns.

We must have been the first to check-in as our flight was surprisingly full. New Year chimed at 35,000 feet.  Our plastic flutes, bubbling with warm champagne, joined in a celebratory toast, to H and I, to new beginnings, on wards and up wards. It wasn't long before my bladder was frothing with fizz. Dragging my merry legs to the mile high lavatory, I spotted techno God Father, DJ Juan Atkins, sitting in economy looking rather po-faced. I sheepishly said hello, but didn't bother properly introducing myself. I mean, who was I? Just a humble minion, bottom (almost) of the techno DJ family tree.

Our feet touched French soil, well tarmac, a little beyond the witching hour. Luggage reclaimed, I greeted my record box like a long lost friend. I could handle missing knickers (I think). Not records. But poor Juan (see above), his box of 12" tricks had escaped onto a different flight. He looked drained of any humour. He wasn't going to be spinning any records that night...  

At the arrivals lounge H and I stumbled upon a scene that resembled a military base. The space was occupied by a small testosterone sea of berets, boots and guns. What was the army doing here at this ungodly time in the morning? H wisely suggested we shouldn't bother enquiring. We waited nervously, inconspicuously. Almost two hours later, our chauffeur, a dopey bloke in khakis - probably a mate of the promoters - finally appeared to chaperon H and I, at treacherously high speed, to the gig.

I can't recall much of the club night or the set I played. But...There was more champagne. A lot more. There was pulsing bass, and hip throwing rhythms (the French love their techno). There was a blanket of dry ice, an indoor continuum of the day's thwarting fog. There was a strobe light that cast the limbs of whistling, cheering clubbers in time stopping slow motion. There were my stifled yawns as I chose vinyl to spin at 4.30 am.

And then it was over. Happy New Year.

Back at the hotel room, H and I laid in bed gathering the duvet around us. We couldn't sleep. So we talked. And talked. And talked. About our lives, our loves, our pasts. We panned golden nuggets from our shared histories, discovering things in common, things that intertwined our bond, things we might not have shared had we not found ourselves in a double bed in Montpellier.

January 1st was clear, balmy, almost Spring-like. H and I dunked fresh croissants in mugs of gloopy hot chocolate, our sisterhood strengthened, on new fertile ground. We had fought the fog of yesterday, and here we were, today, on New Years Day, in the South of France, talking, smiling, about our mist banishing clarity, our deepened understanding, of ourselves, our friendship, and of our familial affection for each other...

As the moving walkway conveyed us to the baggage reclaim area at Gatwick, our attention was caught by a tall, glamorous woman stood several feet in front of us. She was wearing an ankle length coat, thick with pelt and fur, that she'd protectively, and maybe politically, turned in side out. Squeezed under her right arm was the tiniest of toy dogs...

...H and I, both taken aback, looked at each other, eyebrows quizzically raised, telepathically communicating the same thought.


So once upon a time, what did you enjoy (or dislike) doing, seeing or creating? It could be anything. What were you like many moons ago? Do you have a once upon a time story to tell or picture to share? It could be a happy, sad or humorous tale. The skies the limit. So do link up below and grab the badge code ... and don't forget to tweet #onceuponatime. This is a monthly meme.

You can read my other once upon a time stories here.

Grab the badge code ...

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All Change ...

So far, this has been an emotional week. It hasn't helped that I'm clouded by premenstrual tension. As I write, another storm hovers menacingly in a whirlpool of murky yellow grey over the rooftop of our flat. The cloud is circling like the base of a UFO from a science fiction movie. It's reminiscent of the mother ship in the Spielberg classic, Close Encounters Of The Third Kind ...

Anyway, the main reason I'm feeling down is because Little A finishes her time with her childminder, L, tomorrow. She was due to end the beginning of August. But a few days ago L received some very upsetting news and she's leaving the country with her immediate family this Saturday. They'll be gone for three weeks. So it has all come to an abrupt end.

This sudden turn of events has made me reflect upon the importance of L in our lives; the positive and nurturing impact she's had on both Little A and I.

When we set out on our quest to find a suitable childminder, L was the first person we interviewed. Little A was only two months old and spent most of her time watching the world from the encasing comfort of a sling bound either to me or Younger Dad. Even though we met a handful of other very competent caregivers, I knew in my bones that L was the right childminder from that initial meeting. She was warm, sturdy, down to earth and possessed an easy friendliness I felt immediately comfortable with, and trusted. It also helped that L had superb references, and that the select mothers I spoke to held her in high regard. So the decision was made.

Little A began her settling in period when she was ten months old. This lasted a month; an hour here and a couple of hours there, until I felt assured that Little A was in safe hands. She began her first full day a couple of weeks shy of her first birthday. From there on L looked after her one day a week.

She's been going to L's for just over a year and a half now. In all that time Little A hasn't fussed when I've relinquished her in the morning. At the end of the day I'm always greeted by a jubilant little girl with a bagful of artwork. L has given Little A constant care and attention, consistency and love, and bowl upon bowl of Cheerios. Her flat is a treasure trove of toddler fun; the living room lined with boxes of stikkle bricks, books, dolls, teddies, make believe costumes, and there's a tent for extra special hide-away mischief. Every week L and Little A frequented playgroups, parks and duck ponds, and Little A's imagination stretched with music, painting, glue and pipe cleaners.

For this I am very grateful because sometimes I fall down in my mothering. I'm not always the responsive or patient parent I'd like to be. In many ways L has been like a special aunt; flexible and on hand in times of personal difficulty and illness, and there have been plenty of last minute requests for help.

And for me, that one day a week, that free space on the calendar has gifted a moment to breathe. Those eight child free hours have granted a space to recover, a space to write, opportunity to see clients, time to read, time to swim, and to reconnect with friends over lunch and a glass of wine. Most of all its helped to claw back my sanity and a clearer sense of myself after nearly two years hidden under the canopy of post natal illness.

And for that I am so thankful.

I'm going to feel very sad when Little A and I wave our last goodbyes. I keep reminding Little A that tomorrow is her last day with L. But she will remain in her happy world as she doesn't really understand. I however, will most definitely shed a tear.

Next week, Little A starts another settling in period at a local nursery. She was going to start in September but we moved the date forwards owing to the latest developments with L. For now, she's going to go two mornings a week, until, when she's three, the blessed fifteen hours of Government funded childcare becomes available. I'm nervous about the change. But I keep reminding myself that Little A's time with L, her nine year old daughter, and the other toddlers L cared for, has buoyed her with the social confidence for her new adventure.

In the meantime I will write L a glowing reference.


Although its Thursday, I'm hooking up with a new linky, Wednesday Witter hosted by Hello Wall.

A Bus Strike and a Clubbing Experience

Typical. There was a bus strike. I was completely unaware of this until a helpful passer-by politely pointed at the electronic sign above my head. In red neon it shouted the words all commuters dread, INDUSTRIAL ACTION. Why the heck hadn't I noticed this before? Oh no. Not today. Not at the start of Britmums Live. I'm going to have to walk the long walk to the tube. And fast. Until the moment that stranger had redirected my attention, I'd been sitting absent mindedly on the unyielding plastic bench of the bus shelter for nearly twenty minutes, my faith in London transport still intact.

It was on my hurried half-run to the station that I finally became aware of the distinct lack of public transport snarling Uxbridge Road, and the unusual throng of frustrated looking pedestrians busying like ants in the same direction as me. How had I not noticed these glaring clues earlier? Then providence gracefully stepped in. I glanced intuitively over my shoulder and spotted something heavenly. A lone double decker. And it was rumbling towards me. I was luckily within an ear shot of a bus stop and flagged the renegade vehicle. A gasp of calming relief escaped my mouth as the bus indicated and pulled to the curb. It was packed but I squeezed on between stiff Summer raincoats and bullying shoulder bags. I'd made it ...

... And I was on time for the pre conference meet up at the coffee shop. But a large chai latte couldn't assuage my nerves. Britmums Live was my first blogging conference and it seemed like one giant blind date. Only this date had a narrative twist. I don't think I've been in a situation where I'm meeting someone in the flesh for the first time and they already know many intimate details about my life. What would my cyber friends think of me? Was there a believable and fluid congruency between my written word and the real life me? Would I lose some of my on line mystique? I needn't have worried though as this weekend I found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with a group of welcoming, genuine, warm, and thoroughly supportive women.

And the conference? Well I spent the first hour overwhelmed and rooted to the spot like a stunned rabbit caught in head lights. I don't remember drinking the peppermint tea or eating the lemon cake I held in each clammy hand. I do remember intently gazing at many chest lines trying to decipher names and blog titles on conference badges. I remember uttering "Oh I know you" and "I really like your blog" an awful lot. I also remember a lively conversation about the merits of True Blood and Twilight. Vampires are useful ice breakers. Adrenaline though can have a very over powering and surreal effect on the senses. So much so that the entire two days often felt like a nostalgic throw back to my DJ'ing days. The excitement of meeting so many new people and absorbing the collective positive energy of the 500 bloggers present had more in common with a clubbing experience. I found myself riding an ecstatic high.

The stuff that stole my interest included call to action keynotes from Ruby Wax and Sarah Brown, serenely dozing babes in arms that invited broody yearnings, workshops on the Path to Getting Published and How to Create and Market Your Own eBooks which appealed to my writing aspirations, copious glasses of prosecco and canapes proferred during the BIBs Awards party, and the Bloggers Keynote ...

The Bloggers Keynote was a truly powerful, and empathic experience. It was a joy to listen to each chosen Blogger's selected post. Their spoken renditions breathed life and electricity into their written words. Hayley from Downs Side Up received a standing ovation for reading this moving post about her beautiful daughter, Natty, who has downs syndrome. There wasn't a dry eye in the room.

And now its all over and I'm genuinely sad. I find myself in a melancholic haze. I think I'm having a post clubbing come down. For the first time my humble blog and I felt a part of something much bigger; a blogging community that is making a difference.

Life is about relationship, and it doesn't matter if this takes place on line. Because behind that computer screen resides a real person with history, worries, triumphs and losses, aspirations, hope, tragedy and illness, and love. And the energy of that human experience pulsates through the written word. And in that there is always connection ...

See you at Britmums 2013.

#Art I Heart - Friendship

H is my closest and dearest friend. Our friendship presently spans 22 years. We met through a mutual acquaintance at university. If you met us you might think we were chalk and cheese but our chemistry works. There are similarities in our personal histories and we are both independent and creative women. To this day I don't think we have ever missed each others birthdays. H isn't just a friend though, she is family and my most trusted confidant.

Amongst her many qualities H is dependable, down to earth, a great listener, a skilled thinker, empathic, warm hearted, cultured and particularly well read.  She is also a very talented visual artist. I am very proud to say that I own three of her original artworks that each mark an important moment in my life.

I think H gave me this piece when I was either 21 or 22. I love the earthy textures and colours, and the way the paint has been manipulated and scratched away. We were both post graduates at this point. H escaped the desolation of a ramshackle Lancashire farmhouse to come and live with me and a bunch of other twenty somethings in an even more run down terraced house in the post graduate and burglar friendly enclave of Hyde Park, Leeds.

These were very happy and creative times.

H found an art studio and networked with other local artists. I was a burgeoning DJ. H always accompanied me to my weekly radio show on Dream FM; a pirate station which was particularly popular with the petty inmates of Armley jail as my fan mail will testify.

Anyway we had far too much time on our hands. It was an era of leisurely ease, late nights and large vats of vegetable pasta. Our home became ground zero for many a riotous house party. A lot of fun and buffoonery was had.

This was my 30th birthday present from H. Its a small pencil sketch based on one of her larger pieces. By our third decade H had become an established artist and had moved to London with her long term partner to participate in a three year art residency scholarship based in the East End. I moved to the big smoke during my thirty first year. I still DJ'ed occasionally but was now in the throes of reinventing myself as a tai chi floating, yoga bending, corporate clad 'jobs to pay the rent' woman. 

Our early thirties was a period when H and I spent many a Sunday afternoon engrossed in conversation on Hampstead Heath or encased in the inviting darkness of a North London cinema. I've lost count the number of movies we've seen together. I don't want to picture the mountainous heap of sweet pop corn that got scoffed. Actually H never really ate pop corn, she always used to smuggle in a packet, or three, of Mintolas. I've no idea where she purchased them from. I still haven't located anywhere in London that stocks them.

We once found ourselves rather spectacularly lost on Hampstead Heath. It was a damp, drizzly November day. H and I had decided upon an afternoon amble as part of my 31st celebrations. The idea of a bracing walk had seemed like a good one. Not when we found ourselves in a directional muddle and at the mercy of our map reading skills. The icy drizzle morphed into vengeful rain pellets that targeted us with missilic gusto. Then the swift arrival of an inky dusk mid afternoon sent us into a tail spin. Tree branches that had offered a protective canopy in the daylight now clawed menacingly over our heads. There was no one else about but our nervous selves as we trudged aimlessly round and round the same path. It all got a little Blair Witch. After an hour we eventually found the exit and the reassuring sight of H's car. Still, the afternoon had not been not in vain. It made several generous servings of victoria sponge and a mug of strong brew back at H's taste all the more sweeter.

This masterpiece is my wedding gift from H. I always secretly hoped she would bequeath Younger Dad and I an original canvas to mark our nuptials. And I wasn't disappointed. On the day before our wedding H arrived in her car and unloaded a very large and beautifully wrapped square shape.

"No" I gasped. I couldn't believe it. I was ecstatic.

Inside our living room, I carefully prised the delicate tissue off to reveal an H original.

H and I spent a decadent afternoon together getting pampered at the Cow Shed. Then the night before the ceremony we kicked back, ate food, drank sparkling wine and watched Wood Allen.

We also talked about the years gone by and our hopes and fears for the future.

Friends.

I love H's work and not just because she is my best friend. I love her subject matter; the relationship between architecture and urban space. I really like the way she plays with perspective and cleverly incorporates industrial materials into her pieces.

H was the best woman at my wedding and will be for the rest of my days. I honestly can't imagine life without her.

Ten months separate H and I in age and do you know what is so poetic? Ten months now separate the age between our daughters. And we are both God Mothers to each others children.

This post is dedicated to H. A wonderful, wonderful friend.

I am linking up this post with Midlife Single Mum's very imaginative Art I Heart meme. The idea is that you choose one piece of art you feel drawn to and write a short story about it. Although in this case it was three pictures and long rambling prose.