Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Spring has arrived to North London. Your sister is cruising and crawling and has much to say about every subject under the sun. You father is convinced she has uttered her first word and it was 'Read.' There is much to say and much to think about. Much to unfold and unfurl and much to pack up and store away. Sometimes I think that is what the seasons are about: compartmentalizing bits of life so you can focus on different areas at different times. These last few months, I have been in an idyll. I have woken late or early, cuddled up with Josie the dog and the BD, watched the shadows drift idly by along the ceiling, rising to cook and bake and potter around with a cup of coffee. It was a long winter, punctuated by nice things -- visits to Norfolk, visits to Wales, trips to Wales to see you grandparents and now. . . with Spring, I return to work and there is a significant part of me that DOES NOT WANT TO GO. It is very strange; I love the project and the environment isn't that bad; it is horribly white and sterile --having been designed to resemble a set from a specific film, but the idea of leaving my snug fills me with the desire to balk outright. And there is a deeper desire for more. . . more space, more rooms, more family. So we will move on elsewhere, taking you with us to a new place. There is just nothing else for it, really. Next is more, as they say.