22 March
I had to go to London today, for a meeting about some potential work from a company I used to work for, many moons ago. I set off early, prising small children off me, lists of instructions tumbling out of my mouth. It must be so nice to just pick up a briefcase and go. My daughter was cross and pouty; having fully recovered from her bout of illness, in that miraculous way that small children do, she sensed my attention wandering from her, along with my physical presence. “Work’s stupid”, she announced, with all the assurance of Paris Hilton. “I won’t do it when I’m a big lady”. “Let’s hope you do a better job of landing a sugar Daddy than I did, honeybunch”, I muttered. I hadn’t particularly wanted to go as it’s a long and expensive trip, just for a brief meeting which may or may not come to anything. See and be seen is a fine motto for office life, but not so convenient when you’re making a round trip of 150 miles. I didn’t have anyone to look after the children for more than part of the day, so couldn’t make a day and night of it. Once I was on the train, though, I let the pleasure of unaccustomed solitude wash over me. I’m one of those people who loves to travel. Arriving in London, my mood changed. I seem to have lost that ability to adapt quickly to my surroundings that I had when I was younger; maybe we all lose, it, at some point. The barrage of noise and the rush and hum all around me seemed too much. Everything too bright, too loud, too brash. Sensory overload; I wanted to hunker down like a toddler and bury my face in my Mother’s skirt. God, I hate London, I thought. Some twenty minutes later, I was walking through the City, passing restaurants and bars I once knew too well, remembering ambition, celebrations, intense friendships with colleagues who have long since pulled up the drawbridges and retreated to their families, like me. I felt the familiar energy return, I walked faster, felt confident, striding out. These boots were sure made for walking. God, I love London.

I was plunged back into the abyss a few minutes later. My meeting was with a fairly senior guy in the company, someone who joined long after my time, but to my surprise he was twelve. Or maybe fourteen, at a push. It was a relatively informal chat, but to my horror I could feel myself coming over all bossy and maternal, not at all the smart, confident girl-about-town image I’d expected to snap into. Hell, I thought, maybe I’ve only got two personas now; bossy Mum, or frantic blogger, fingers aching, eyes bulging, making a bee line for the computer at strange times of day, and only able to relate to cyber friends. Thanks the Lord he didn’t ask me about any hobbies; I’d have got him on the site before he could say ‘financial remuneration’; maybe he could have started a London blog to rival Frances’s NY tales, “Life as a teenage mover and shaker”.

Anyway, I came, I saw, I probably failed to conquer, but it was OK. The best part of my day was going for a coffee in Soho, to one of my favourite places in the world (see photo). R and I went for coffee there when we bumped into one another one Saturday, a couple of days after we’d first met, through work; I suppose it was our first date. They made our wedding cake for us. Of course, as soon as I sat down, I started wondering about the children, and what they were up to, and what sticky concoctions they would have chosen, had they been with me. Such are the contradictions of motherhood.

Coming home is always the best bit of a journey. Coming home in the late afternoon, especially, feels naughty, as if I’m playing truant, slipping away from a life as a city ghost, to my real, substantial self. I feel the pull of home while we’re still hurtling through the dreary suburbs, long before the view changes to a spare, watery landscape. As I pull up outside the house, desperate to get out of the boots I’d been striding about in so confidently only hours before, I hear the call of the owls who live in the tree by the house. One screeches and the other instantly replies. It’s not dark yet, and I can see them clearly. They are vividly coloured, all bright russets and ochres, and something in their self-important, enquiring stares reminds me of my children, just on the other side of the door. God, I love home.