Then, as now: (Part 1 of 5)

confessions of a ten-, thirty- and seventy-year old

Part One - for so long, I have wanted so much less

Dawn

I’m getting out of bed.

Quietly.

The cracked and shiny ‘lino’ feels cold under my feet as I step across it and onto the carpet in the middle of the room. I get dressed with the haste that only a ten year old can achieve – in yesterday’s clothes lifted from the back of the chair so as not to make noise by opening drawers or wardrobes. Slinging the strap of the RAF-blue canvas bag over my shoulder, I move silently down the stairs in my stockinged feet.

I sneak into the pantry, with its cool marble shelves carrying rows of Kilner jars sealed to preserve our now daily harvest of wild blackberries - the apples from the orchards are kept up in the attic in individual wrappings of blue tissue paper. I grab a large slice of the blackberry and apple pie left over from last night’s tea, add seven biscuits from the jar and take two Mars bars from the Quality Street tin by the bread bin.

If anyone asks, I’ll look wide-eyed and innocent and they’ll just think it’s my brother who can (and often does) eat almost a whole loaf in one sitting and then all the biscuits and chocolate. Not me, never me.

I’m sat outside the back door, always unlocked in our remote house in a now remote time, tugging on my beloved “All-Star” baseball boots.

ºººº

As the light almost imperceptibly adds greys to the landscape beyond the nursery window, I’m walking back and forth, humming and holding her gently in my arms. This little one’s been asleep for several minutes now and I carry her to the crib to sleep some more. And the other, bigger one, exhausted by her mothering duties and enjoying her much-needed sleep, is rolled up under the covers on the bed in our room.

I decide to leave her there and pad down the stairs to make a cup of tea in the kitchen I only finished installing last weekend, feeling proud of my handiwork of taps, pipes, washing machine, sink, sockets, lights, cupboards, and the floor. Even the cooker stands as testament to my role as marketing director at just 30 years of age but more than that - chief man, protector of and provider for the two of them asleep upstairs, privileged to be the one they chose.

I wander into the sun room, settle back into the big old chair and light a Rothmans King Size, sipping my tea and smiling with self-satisfaction at how unexpectedly lucky I am and feeling slightly smug at how well I am doing.

I’ve opened the windows and the door, of course. She’ll not notice the smoke by the time she comes down.

ºººº

In the comfy seclusion of the small but beautifully laid out therapy room where a she with whom I share my life now helps so many people find better ways to navigate their lives, I’m watching the moon set behind the chimney stack of Bernard’s house. I see it has a bite taken out of it by the partial eclipse which has been heralded so frequently in yesterday’s news feed and about the only item I’d read with any attention. I don’t like the news these days. I’m ready to have no more, ever.

There is nothing in my calendar for today. No clients to zoom with. I am glad of this - I no longer present myself to others as a coach and I wasn’t really ever any good at it, no matter what my clients might have – and did – say.

The moon reminds me of the Apple brand logo and I smile at this juxtaposition floating around in my awareness.

It begins to turn a darker, burnt orangey-red.

I turn away to begin a new, same day.

Part Two - Sunrise

Part Three - Noon

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