We’ve been in France. Eating, thinking, relaxing. Making plans. Looking after the biscuit. I’ve realised that there’s something about the rhythm of a working week that I miss. Something about knowing where the sweet spots are: the absolute freedom of a Friday evening, the pleasure of plunging into the park at lunchtime. Something about the small ceremonies of buying a coffee & almond croissant on a Friday morning or of pausing to wash an apple mid-afternoon. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to fit these tiny moments of pleasure into the freer routine of days at home with the biscuit. I love the fresh promise of autumn. September has always seemed a far more promising place to start a year to me than January. So, New Year, new plans. Little ways to improve the days. And, more ambitiously, plans to find time to write (the last twentysomething birthday and I make myself a rash promise — but, if not now, then when?).
The biscuit is three and a half months. A letter arrives from our local health visiting team. ‘As your child is now approaching the weaning age,’ it reads, ‘you are invited to attend our "Messy Me" weaning workshop.’ I suddenly realise that my days of reading over her shoulder are numbered. Those early weeks of breastfeeding torture have turned into the most cherished parts of my day. Six months though, I’m sure they don’t need to eat until they’re at least six months. I phone and book a place on ‘Messy Me’ for the start of October. ‘Bring baby along,’ says the health visitor and I’m left wondering what else she might have expected me to do with her.