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. 

Whoopee

Christmas was going to take some ingenuity. Nearly four, and she was already questioning the tricky logistics St Nick had ahead of a perilous night's present dropping. 'Mummy, how's he going to get down our chimney, he's so fat?' 'Mummy, how does he know who's house to go to?' 'Mummy, do you think he got my letter, and the elves are making my marbles?' My one, consistent response, 'don't worry, Christmas is magic, and you'd be amazed the tiny holes Father Christmas can squeeze through, quite simply astounding.' That seemed to satisfy her curiosity...

...and it turned out there was enough room in Santa's sack for a pot of The North Poles finest; glass marbles of all sizes and colours, some with a pearly sheen, others with swirls of colour, like Jupiter. Like Willy Wonker sweets. (thank you John Lewis).

Grandma slept on a blow up bed in the spare room, Younger Brother slept on the futon in the lounge. They arrived on Christmas Eve, appearing late enough in the afternoon as to spare me an extra twenty minutes for a few well chosen yoga stretches - the tiniest envelope, a moment's serenity - before the festivities began in full glass chinking swing.

'The meat's already cooked,' Younger Dad said, alarm clear in his eyes. Shaking his head, he stuck the thermometer in for a second time to be sure, 'no, it's definitely cooked.' The last of the vegetables weren't prepared, or the Yorkshire Pudding. A sheet of foil was placed over the strip loin of beef, the very one I had stood waiting impatiently for the previous day, in the rain, a bright pair of raspberry Crocs offering nothing in the way of protection against damp or cold, with no umbrella, or mobile phone, in a long motionless line outside the local butchers. For two hours. Apparently, half of Croxley Green had begun queueing at eight in the morning.

Twenty minutes later, a decision - not mine - had been made. 'I haven't time to cook the parsnips.' said Younger Dad. 'What?' I asked, 'you mean we won't be having the maple syrup parsnips?' Younger Dad pressed on, 'I need to serve the food now.' 'But you can't, I'm still ironing the table cloths.' I had spent weeks planning and procuring the detail, the colour, for the Christmas Day dinner table; there was no way it wasn't being made. And so it began, our festive altercation. Table vs The Food. Grandma as referee. Oh Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without one merry clash...

Needless to say, Table won, and the beef was still perfect. We all sat down to candle lit magic; silver glittered stars, snowflakes, and delicate beading coiled it's way down the pale blue runner, catching the light of the flames. Crackers. And napkins in holders, and specially bought place mats for the occasion. I even went as far as name cards... The Yorkshire Puds, soft on the inside, crispy on the outside, over and above the required West Riding standards, the meat mopped up with tart red cabbage, creamy potatoes dauphinoise, buttered carrots, and the richest gravy.

During dessert, Grandma had a little accident, she sat down on a strategically placed whoopee cushion, and it burst. The oh so weighty implication... Little A thought it was hilarious. And thankfully so did Grandma - her good humoured response permitting full bellied laughter around the table.

And after all the mince pies had been devoured, and the wrapping paper ripped and strewn across the living room floor, these were the things I learnt from Christmas 2013....

1. How wonderful family traditions are. On Christmas morning, we all tucked into Younger Dad's special festive breakfast; his family have made it every year for as long as he can remember; white toast layered with smoke salmon, sour cream, cress, and mock caviar (lump fish), washed down with Bucks Fizz. On Boxing Day, we made our special breakfast, the one reserved for birthdays and other important markers on the calendar; buttermilk pancakes soaked in butter and maple syrup with crisp streaky bacon.

2. Seriously, I shouldn't take myself or Christmas so seriously (see above). It's a dinner table, not the end of the world. 

3. The finest moment was snuggling in bed together on Christmas morning - me and my family of three - and opening our stocking presents one at a time, the pale winter light filtering through the gauze of the net curtains.

4. I have developed a passion for lounge wear. I blame it on the yoga, not that I'm comfortably middle-aged.

On New Years Eve, Younger Dad and I braved the drivel on TV, waving a half hearted hello to 2014, surprisingly unmoved by the fireworks exploding over the London Eye. At ten past midnight, dressed in lounge wear, I climbed the stairs to bed, the enormous serving of curry three hours before still grumbling away in my belly. In bed, I thought about 2013. Busy, industrious 2013. The house move, words, writing festivals, Little A.... when my eyes opened in the morning, I had found my word for this year; believe.

Wishing you a wonderful 2014!

Winter Sun

'Mummy, don't be afraid, flying is fun.'

And when I looked out of the window, down below seemed very, very far down indeed; shades of weak tea brown, white spots, threaded black lines. Over a Spanish mountain range I thought I saw a giant alligator etched in its peaks. Shapes in the earth, not in the clouds. I was nervous. Over an hour in I was still wearing the seat belt. This was my first flight since the honeymoon. It didn't matter then, it was just Younger Dad and me. Now there was Little A to consider; all week I'd worried about the plane crashing, that sequence from Flight on auto replay, over and over. I couldn't be sure if the pilot steering our plane - flight something, something, something, bound for Lanzarote - had the same skills as Denzel Washington.

How would I save Little A?

And I wasn't ready to die. My novel wasn't finished, not even the first draft.  

On the toilet, the plane hit turbulence; one hand clung to the sink, an elbow propped against the opposite wall. Balanced. Just. I couldn't concentrate, that annoying ping-pong sound and red - red for danger - image of the seat belt sign.

I returned to my seat shaken. Certainly not soothed.

'Don't worry Mummy, it's just a bit bumpy.'

And if in panic, boiled travel sweets are the best remedy by far. Half the tin had disappeared by the time the plane circled over the volcanic land of seal skin grey. Welcome to Espana.

Lanzarote is made for moon people. If you took a small jump, you might float in the air, weightless. The villages - tightly clustered, their low lying white buildings brightly off set by their dark, arid surroundings - like the out postings of an interplanetary mission. There is an other worldly beauty and grace here, empty of complication, naked, a severity of truth.

We stayed on the blustery north east coast in an eco retreat, a finca, consisting of varying sized yurts and villas. Ours was a family villa originally converted from an old water tank. The lounge housed the most ornate day bed. In fact, throughout the entire property such exquisite detail had been paid to all the decoration and furniture. There was a donkey called Molly, and well over a dozen chickens, their fresh egg yolks like baby suns.  

I didn't write. Instead, I read, flopped in the sunshine, enjoying the simplicity of words, or I spent precious time with my family, burying our feet in cool, wet sand, splashing about in the water with Little A. The temperature was perfect, like an English summer's day; it was the end of November, winter, and the time of year didn't seem real. On the afternoon of my birthday, we paid a visit to a Cactus Garden set in a circular walled enclosure. Hundreds of varieties. Aliens. Unsure of the prickles, Little A admired the various forms and shapes and colours, 'that one's furry Mummy, a silly furry cactus.'

It was an easy holiday. We woke up late, spent most mornings in our pyjamas, the odd morning scrambling a bag of essentials together for a spot of sight seeing; the Timanfaya National Park was a favourite, Little A's face pressed against the window, jaw dropped, 'WOWSERS, look at the volcanoes Mummy and Daddy, they're AMAZING.'

The afternoon's were enjoyed either on a beach - not all the sand was midnight black - or by the pool side back at the finca,Younger Dad, his teeth clenched, taught Little A how to swim in the not so solar heated water. I rediscovered the art of deep relaxation; a reflexology session and a yoga class kissed my worries away. I had forgotten, had become addicted to the tension held in every sinew and muscle. My body sighed with the release, the relief. And I remembered.

On the return flight home, I was too relaxed to care about dying.

And in the fortnight after we'd arrived home, I revived my yoga practise with gusto, and bought Little A her own mat, and DVD.

Breathe In. Breathe out...

Festival of The Middle-Aged

Well this took me back. At least I had an en suite shower, eggy but functioning. Back in the day it was the communal washroom, a corridor of fifteen or so lecture-hardened women legging it for the last dregs of hot water each and every morning. I never made it. I blamed my daily misfortune entirely at the door of the banana skins I'd smoked the night before. But when you're nineteen years old, tepid will do, and anyway, the hang overs were worth it.

And here I was again - de ja vu - a student for three days. Not stoned but brain addled from motherhood and middle-age. No tie-dye or kaftans but neutral woollens and lycra-stretch trousers. The comfort factor. For two nights, I replaced memory foam for bed springs circa '87. I. Felt. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. And did I mind? Absolutely, categorically no! You see, I was in attendance at The Writers Festival, an event I'd been looking forward to for months. It didn't disappoint. Wine. New friendships. Fine dining in the student refectory - the mango and brie filo parcels were heavenly, and of course, cake and biscuits - a writer's staple.

It was wonderful to spend a weekend in the company of other writers talking about, well, writing. But I wasn't fooled by the mini courses and workshops or the presence of agents and publishers disguising the real agenda of the Festival, that we were all participating in a giant meeting of WA (writers anonymous)....

'It's a drug, I can't control it, I've been doing it for years, sometimes in the open, brazenly, in libraries, in coffee shops, but mainly behind doors, when no one's watching, no one else understands, but you do, that's why I'm here, to come out, as an addict I mean, this is so hard..... my name is Older Mum, and I'm, I'm, a blogger/writer, writer/blogger. Don't shoot me.' 

The average age of the festival goer casually rested on forty five years young. Sedate. Relaxed. Apart from Pam that is, a silver haired, 70's+ party wagon. I loved hanging out with her. She missed out on the Saturday of the previous year, totally hungover, rollickingly drunk on red wine the night before. She told me - little miss innocent - that people kept plying her with booze. I raised a questioning brow.

Then there was Tor, my life saving anchor for the whole event. Isn't it lovely when you just click? And someone who was writing magical realism and another who'd spent five years writing her post second world war crime thriller and another who..... it went on and on. And when someone asked me about my novel I was left scratching my head, 'it's about a DJ who, er, loses her record box...' I really know how to rock a pitch (not).        

But as it turns out, I received very positive feedback on my writing from both an agent and a book doctor (big-up yourself Older Mum). And that's left me in a bit of quandary....

Now I'm ever so determined to finish the first draft of Four Gigs. End of the year is my goal. I'm in an uncomfortable situation where it's novel vs. blog. What do I do? All that consumes me is the next chapter and what my characters are doing. I've even caught myself talking like the main protagonist! This has left no head space for ideas for blog posts. It's completely full at the inn. And I have to participate in NaNoWriMo this November, it'll give me such a push....

....So I might have to blog a little less.

Please don't shoot me! 
     

Out to Lunch

Have you ever sat in a jar of marmalade? I have. These last few weeks. Sticky. My skin ripening, a pale orange tone. I have a sallow complexion, I like to think almost olive, although I suspect many Southern Europeans would laugh at that assertion.

The heat. I love the heat, the giddy temperatures, the smell of sun cream, lolly pops, chilled beer. And after such a shoddy spring, I can't bring myself to complain about the dial soaring past thirty-one degrees. I hope it continues long into September, when golden leaves shine like the sun, and I'm a shrivelled satsuma.

With all this ghastly summer stuff going on, I've barely been near this blog. Writing is very much an indoor pursuit. And the words ain't flowing with the sunshine.... it's like scratching sentences with a fork.

Today, Little A and I stood on a cliff, below the waves and a little boat made for two, across on the horizon, the very faint view of another coast line. A signpost lent next to our spot. It pointed in the direction of the far away land. It said 'Autumn Term'. So Little A and I must navigate ourselves through the summer sea - there will be calm, there will be storms, but we must work as a *captain-second mate team (*I am the captain) if we are to reach the other shore in one piece. There will be play dates and parks and butterflies and fairies and tea and cake and lazing and staring at the skies....

And with so much to enjoy and do, I am taking a much deserved break from Blogland over August. I simply want to sit back and relish the time with my family. The garden awaits. As does wonderful mummy-daughter time. There are my summer reads, brand new, stacked on the book shelf. And there is my novel..... the only written words these next six weeks.

I will return - if I can stay away that long - on 9th September with One Week which will only run for three days from 9-11 September as I am going to a Writing Festival, and actually, if I'm honest, I'm worried I've run out of ideas to extend it to the usual five days.....

So until we meet again, when the nights are drawing in, adieu and farewell.

XXX

Ps. I am also cutting back on my blog reading, so please don't be offended if I don't comment as often over the next month or so. I will be back!  

On Hold

The garden. It has pulled me from fug and haze. Saved me from tears and tantrums.

But therein lies a problem.

Beer. Sunshine. Alfresco dining. Strawberries and ice cream. Potting. Planting, Growing. Admiring.

There's been very little writing the past fourteen days.  

Every time I've stepped on the gravel, viewed the surrounding beauty, a tempting voice in my head coaxes my wallet, 'just one more pot - a small one along side those larger two would look perfect,' 'one more hardy shrub,' 'another flowering sage,' 'more lavender.' And then to the garden centre, my new, bestest hangout. Younger Dad has told me STOP. But I can't help myself. I have a store card. 10% off all plants. A free cup of tea. What's a girl supposed to do eh?

And it's not just flora. I've purchased garden stakes, a Buddha head, a fat stone hippo, a wooden wind chime. The latest buy, a garden table and chairs. Heaven help me....

Do you think I am indoors writing this? Mais non. 

I'm sat under the parasol, breathing in the air, blue sky, the hollowed harmonics of the wind chime, pinks, creams, mauve, electric blues. White lavender. Purple lavender. The feathery green acer, the russet red.

The spindly flowers of the tomato plant. The bright orange trumpets of the courgette - the way they suddenly open, then curl in, fingers entwined. The ripening strawberries. The fattening lettuce leaves.

I am so looking forward to a long lazy summer.

Social media is on hold. 

I Heart You

When I arrived at the front door I paused. Only a forty minute bridge between another world and domesticity. I looked at the swag bag leaning against my calf. A vivid green dinosaur, a box of Special K, biscuits, children's books. And what lay behind the red door? Piles of washing? Toys strewn over the floor? And as my feet walked over the threshold, I heard the screaming. Little A. Younger Dad - upset I'd come home to this, his face sagging - pleaded with that look in his eyes - 'please put her to bed, please?' My first thought, 'aagghh', my second, 'do I have to do this?' I barely had 48 hours of chatting and cake eating and tea drinking behind me. And so I kissed my girl good night in a daze, my head still in the froth and buzz of the event at The Brewery.

My first weekend away without Little A. And Younger Dad did me proud. They got through the night. A sleeping team. He managed one wash, the clothes basket still next to the machine, a limp shirt arm hanging over the rim. There were fewer toys scattered around than I anticipated. But no sweeping, that critical watershed chore - a marker of the end of day, the beginning of the evening. Still the boy done good.

When I finally sat down, we poured out the contents of the goody bag onto the laminate floor - the moon shaped hazel nut thins demolished within minutes, a surprise pile of books and toys left on the table for Little A. And then something happened, I experienced a kind of shell shock. All that build up, counting down the weeks, the days, and then nothing. What next? What was I aiming for now? In my despondency I bought next year's ticket. I wanted to do it all over again.There and then.Younger Dad looked at me incredulously like I'd swallowed a mardy wasp and a hairy goat - you've bought next years ticket already? And after all the excitement of meeting a literary agent, reading a post to 500 willing (I hope) listeners, I just couldn't get it together over the following days, like reacting to the concertinaed effect of a long haul flight. Emotionally jet lagged. I didn't read much. I didn't write much. I didn't do anything very much. It's been hard to let go....

....of all the inspiring and supportive bloggers I hung out with, and met for the first time. Will I have to wait another twelve months before I see everyone again? I truly hope not. Laughing, sharing, hugging, joking, it makes the whole thing so real. Not some social media illusion. When I place my palm flat on the computer screen, I know yours is touching behind. Friendship.

And this year I didn't attend many workshops. There was a technical expert who spoke so fast, his head too small for the fizz-bang-whizz of thoughts, I wondered how he slept at night. Instead, I caught up with friends and ate biscuits. There wasn't enough cake though. No, not enough. I bemoaned the lack of chocolate brownies during the breaks. One needs sponge in hand -  thick slices of madeira or lemon drizzle - to pace oneself through serious hours of chatting and networking. I even missed a paddling pool sized portion of trifle at lunch.

There was a mother, brave and hurting. I watched her from afar. A thick chocolate brown bob. Clear, youthful skin. An open, welcoming smile. I wanted to say hello. To tell her how much I've held her in my thoughts. I couldn't muster the courage. I was too shy. Her sleeping babe among the stars. Beautiful, cherished Matilda Mae.
 
And then there was the Bloggers Keynote. The highlight. The irrepressible Katy Hill. An uplifting tribute to Kerry. Readings witty and poignant and powerful. And mine. That post. I did it. An emotional moment for me. To articulate my struggle after Little A's arrival to a roomful of silent listeners. I took a moment, inhaling a deep breath before I sang Happy Birthday.... and I think I hit the right note.

Britmums Live is a festival full of heart. You are never alone in your words. Not ever...

And it's become an annual milestone for me. This blog has come a long way since the conference a year ago. Where will I be in 2014? In my dreams, I know where I'd like to be. Let's wait and see.

Britmums Live, I heart you.

In fact, I heart you so much, I've bent a personal golden rule - only once mind - and included pictures of someone, dear reader, you might know!

Green Fingers

"So then," says Younger Dad, "the garden is your responsibility, I will mow the lawn."

"Oh," I replied.

My fingers certainly aren't in cahoots with the earth. No, definitely not green. I don't enjoy the gritty sensation of soil particles under my nails. The idea of worms wrapping around my fingers. Slug spittle gobbed on stems.

I can't remember the last time I had a garden. I think it was nine years ago. Brambles and nettles. Nettles and brambles. Before that? My home of origin. Sycamore trees. Bluebells. Fat peonies.

When I surveyed our new garden, all I saw was a massive tangle of overgrown weeds. When was the last time this poor garden received care and attention? The previous owners had let it go somewhat, the scene before me mirroring my dark chocolate habit...

Out. Of. Control.

Creeping buttercups - advancing armies of assaulting yellow - choked the flower beds, attacked the gravel pathway. Gangs of dandelions glared with 'what'ya look'in at luv' malicious intent. Tall green villains bullied the remaining shrubs maybe once planted with an 'English garden' vision in mind.

Tools were bought. A pokey prodder thing. A shovel thing. A fork thing. Little A had her very own yellow bucket and blue watering can. Then a week ago, project weed began in earnest. I donned my gardening gloves and began uprooting the green invasion with fervent abandon, hacking away a few feet every day. And while my hands dug in, pulling out wiry white roots, dismantling the intruding infrastructures, Little A collected snails in her bucket, named the ants crawling around her ankles, made brave attempts climbing the silver birch.

And then I made a delightful discovery. One that took me by surprise.

It turns out I love gardening. 

And it works wonders for PMS.

My gardening gloves grew holes. And I didn't mind the crumbs of earth that fell inside. Or the worms my flowered-fabric fingers touched. As each unwanted weed was thrown in the bucket, another bad thought was tossed away. Turning the soil grounded the hot coals in my toes. Cool, calming, stable earth.

The flower beds are now cleared. The soil, dry and naked. A big shop at the gardening centre beckons.

I can't wait.

So far, I have placed the gift of a lavender tree beside the garden fence, planted French lavender papillon - their feathery heads like Native American head dress, potted burgeoning tomato and courgette plants.

Next week, Little A's Jack-and-the-Beanstalk sunflower will find a new home in the borders.

Angel Clouds

Maybe I had too much hot chocolate. All that sugar.

Up. Up. Up.

Like a hot air balloon. Light headed and floating among angel clouds.

Excited. The anticipation. The expectation.

Will I make it? Will I see my name in lights?

I know what's going on though, this want of recognition. I am hoping this time they will take note.

It arrives.

The results are in.

I scroll down the page. My name. My name. Where's my name?

It's not there.

Two minutes ago I had wings, now I'm falling like a bomb.

But... but... but... all that hard work I did? All those colourful words I wrote?

Crestfallen. Disappointed.

And it takes me back to the nine to three and break times and the stiff grey uniform and being that girl the boy never fancied and red marker all over my carefully crafted work. A perennial B student. The middling to bottom streams. Unclassified in maths O'level. Unclassified in general studies.

One solitary A in English though. And captain of the lacrosse team.

Is competition - hot housed in those early years - a good or a bad thing?

I don't like the effect it has on me. Brings out the best and the worst.

But I'm not bitter. Absolutely not.

So pleased at how far I have come.

So grateful to be a part of this landscape of words and friendship and support.

If anything, it helpfully mirrored back my eternal motivation.

What lies beneath.

That after all these years, I am still trying to please mum and dad.

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)