the good stuff

coffee beans, Whalley nab, fresh herbs, baking, running fast, cotton-wool, wind-swept hair, taking risks, our boy's laughter, paddling, teaching, learning, loving, holding, feeling, saving money, Tennyson, tennis, lush grass, Sheena, ethnography, Spradley, Tuesdays with Morrie, Anne of Green Gables, The Red Tent, Valleys, imagination, smiling, walking to work, blossom trees, slumbering children, making dens, trying new things, hope, plum-jam, PB, achievement, cramming things in, remembering, mothering, making, creativity, Tom and Joan, language, meaning, understanding, English country-side, lovely knickers, brown hair, G's torso, reading children's books, humour, sad songs, cups of tea, talking, G's heart, thinking, sunny days, hard rain, neat diving, balancing, kissing, dancing, meeting new people, youth, taut muscles, climbing, exciting projects, lying in, waiting, anticipation, giving, seeing friends, creating memories.

What's in a name?

As I hurtled my way in to work, last week, somewhat flustered from the usual morning slog, I drew up to the new traffic lights (on red, of course) at the foot of the hill in to Preston. As I stopped I noticed a man looking to hitch a ride in to the city. In a flash of a moment I gave him the green light to get in. Without a moment to spare for greetings the traffic lights changed and we were off on our way, up the hill.

I have given rides to men before. Only in daylight, you understand. Giving lifts to hitchers became acceptable whilst I travelled alone, back-packing around the world. More specifically, it was my 3 month bout in New Zealand that really began to dissolve my entirely British resolve never to be truly helpful.

So now, if the sun is shining I help out. I give lifts to strangers waiting on the side of the road. So how does it go? Well, it goes well. You meet and chat, partake in a touch of small talk, smile, and then say your goodbyes.

The man I dropped off in Preston last week only needed a short ride. He was a lovely bloke. I learnt he was from South Shields, had babies in Belgium, and received care from Theo Walcott's mother Lynne. I learnt he believed in home-birth and breastfeeding. Oh, and as he left the car, and handed me a pen I learnt he transported Mercedes Benz around the country.

His parting words: "here you go, Pet. Perhaps one day you'll be driving one of these"

So to the Mercedes-driving man. Thanks for the company. The information. The chatter. If you ever happen to read this. It'd be great to know your name.

Tap-tastic

This is me, age 6, as my Ballerina-self.

My ambitions then, apart from wanting to climb trees, were to dance with Wayne Sleep (I did actually ask Jim to fix that for me) and to become the next Darcey Bussell.

Thanks to a neglectful Jim and the loss of Mrs Thurston (my beloved Dance teacher) to Spain, neither dreams were realised. All I have left to remind me of those childish aspirations is an attic full of trophies, medals, paper-clippings and dancing shoes. That was, however, until and old friend found me on Facebook and invited me along to one of her new adult dance classes, immediately triggering my long-forgotten passion for Ballet.

So it has been up to the loft, for me, to dust off my shoes (and my par de bourrée).

Perhaps Darcey retired just in time.

16 King St

This inconspicuous house. This plain, tiny terrace has been my home for the last eighteen months. This delightful dwelling has given my son and I a place to call our own. A place to feel safe and begin a new journey together. Number sixteen King Street, a little damp, a little small, a little cluttered, has been ours, entirely ours. It has heard our cries, felt our loneliness, held our laughter, known our joy and seen us thrive within it's walls.

Our little home brought us back to the village of my youth, close to my family and the greetings of friendly faces from my past. We have been nestled amongst the green luxury of nature and cloaked in loveliness of the familiar. I remember the first night we slept here. Remember lying in the dark, with my slumbering child beside me, feeling light with the glory of tranquility and excitement in anticipation for my future.

That future is before us, we are set to move next week. With each box I pack, I am aware that I am dismantling our home and I am filled with some sadness. Yet this home has given me strength, a new determination and a heart full of happiness. So whilst that most dreaded of calls, from my Landlady, made my heart sink at the thought of moving out and on, I know that it is time. Time to say goodbye to the house that became the home that rescued me.