I read a quote on Pinterest recently (not a habit of mine as I largely loathe the lot of them), although doubtless a little more nuanced than this, read something along the lines of the enduring possibility of being able to make time for anything. I'm sorry & perhaps in brighter moods than this, I may well agree but lately it has seemed to me to be unrealistic & also pretty patronising. I write this from a bench on a platform awaiting a delayed train with a headache & a blocked nose following a terrible evening spent within the stormclouds of my own bad mood, despairing that the new curry recipe (a delicious looking dhal of cauliflower & apricots, no less) I had attempted had gone very wrong & that my evening's achievements had amounted to a load of laundry & not much else. I've likely allowed fraught feelings from being understaffed & working late overflow into the intended respite of my evenings back at home, spent hurriedly catching up on dishes or sulking at my poor, undeserving boyfriend (sorry, Andrew) I have also felt creatively stunted, struggling to string a few words together to contribute to my notebook, sat on my lap, full of crumbs, most lunchtimes, which, in itself, ordinarily provides a way in which to escape the confines of my own head. I figured that I would scrible a little about a recent weekend back at home in Bedfordshire in an attempt to shake these feelings of ineptitude so here goes.
I am often struck by homesickness &, as I have mentioned in a previous, long ago blog post, family is becoming more precious to me as I grow up (/older) & I like to make the journey home when I'm lucky enough to have to consecutive days off of a week .A couple of weeks ago was one such occasion &, having bundled far too many clothes, books & a couple of bunches of daffodils into a tote bag, I headed to the train station straight from work, propping myself up amongst suited commuters, hurtling through the bright lights, fading into those of passing stations, constellations in the otherwise darkness of surrounding fields, towards the familiar creaking of our opening front door & the smell of my mother's chilli con carne for dinner (one of the few exceptions to my otherwise vegetarian diet although my veggie equivalent isn't half bad either!)
With mother & sister at work & school on the Friday, I enjoyed the empty house filled only with the sound of the kettle boiling, the birds outside & the hum of the radio accompanying the deep, hot bubble bath running, one of the many that I include in my days at home. My grandmother & I had a lunch date for which I pulled on a long, button-up skirt & turtleneck & we sat & ate jacket potatoes & read our books (mine, Virginia Woolf's shorter fiction - a review of sorts imminent - hers, the latest Tami Hoag - not everything is hereditary, it would seem!) in one of the handful of characteristic country pubs dotted around the area.
I had resolved to try another new recipe while home & with my mother's beloved Aga for my use & with a couple of hours to spare before collecting my sister from the bus stop, I began creaming butter & sugar together for the lemon drizzle cake from 'The Kinfolk Table'(you may well remember my mentioning its loveliness before) Unfortunately, three hours later & faced with a monstrous creation, burnt on top & under-baked in the middle (I dread to think what Mrs. Berry would think), I had to admit failure, or at least that I am very much a cook rather than a baker! Still, anything with almost 600g of sugar in it is inevitably scrummy & Sofia & I quite happily had a syrupy hunk each with a mug of tea, knee to knee in the last of the sun on the back step.
Saturday was more of the same quiet niceties - bathing late, ambling up the hill into the town to mosey around the charity shops (no joy this time) & buy fresh bread for lunch, ordering takeaway curry for a treat for dinner, cross-legged with cartons on the carpet of the sitting room watching whatever was on television but mostly just enjoying each other's company without needing to say so.
Sometimes in the midst of worry or stress these moments can seem impossible, like the sickly heat of summer during the bitterest of winters, like being able to breathe through your nose again when your head feels stuffed full of cotton wool, but it's good to be able to remind yourself that that just isn't so.
Speak soon - O.
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