Small things make a big life
Raving in a basement bar, 2am martinis in Soho, interiors from 1350, sleepovers and cocktails with my grown up kids
Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been experiencing moments of profound joy and I’ve come to the conclusion that I am energised by doing BIG THINGS (capitalised so you know I mean BIGGGGG). Curiously, the decision to do something big - in this case, to sell the house I have loved - has made me acutely aware of all of life’s beautiful and small moments.
I am writing from bed.
I’m not sick, just enjoying one of those small moments. It’s a quiet Sunday morning and for a change I haven’t leapt up at the first birdsong and sunlight to crack on with the day, as I like to do in the Summer months in particular. A cat is wedged into my side, purring like a tractor, a coffee cup, drained, is on the bedside table, and five young women - my daughter and her friends - are sleeping in the other rooms, recovering from what I hope was a fun night out in Margate.
The kitchen is strewn with empty corner shop spicy ramen packets, remnants of their tipsy late night snacking. Living alone as I do now, these small signs of life/mess created by others in a home that is now always tidy, is a welcome reminder of my old life, when my kids were young. And it is surprisingly comforting.
They say you’ll miss the dirty fingerprints on the wall when your kids grow up; for me it’s kimchi ramen packs, dried noodle crumbs and seasoning dust on the worktops (Ella) and almost empty crisp packets sealed up as if they are full and put back in the cupboard (Johnny).
Life has been very full lately and in some ways I’ve felt happier in the last few weeks than I have in a long time. Summer has fully arrived. I am a far more fun, happy, and optimistic human when I am warm and freckled and sipping rosé in my garden or cycling to the beach in as little clothing as possible without alarming the elderly neighbours.
I have been fully immersed in all things interiors, from a new column I’m writing for a magazine (more info later in the year), two different types of workshop that I’m planning with a couple of friends, shoots that I’ve been styling for clients, and of course working on all the snagging I never got around to doing for the house, before deciding to sell. The new owners will get a proper mezzanine ladder instead of my £10 Facebook Marketplace deathtrap, those lucky devils!
Oh and house hunting! No more late night Bumble/Hinge swiping for me. Rightmove is my main man these days.
I am never happier than when I’m this particular kind of busy. Even if the current busy-ness isn’t yet yielding the sort of financial gain I’d like, it seems pregnant with possibility. It really could also just be that it’s sunny, I don’t need to wear 3 jumpers, and my Reynaud’s inflicted fingers aren’t numb for a change. But I like to think there is more to it than that.
It has also been full of future daydreaming - what do I want the next few years to look like? Where do I want to be? What do I want my work life to look like? I’m fortunate I am in a position to be able to ask these questions, although it is not without some sacrifice. But waking up today to more bad World news and let’s face it, WIII imminent, fuels me even more to live life to the fullest, even if that sounds like it belongs on a t-shirt in Primark.
I had two exhausting but enriching days in London this week, filling up my cup with a heady mix of culture, cocktails, and candid conversations with friends and family.
I celebrated a cousin’s birthday at Maison François in central London, wishing I’d read Grace Dent’s Guardian piece before I went so I wouldn’t have been quite so overwhelmed by the menu. I ordered well, but could’ve done better. The interiors were impressive with their high brutalist ceilings, cream linen banquettes, and richly stained oak woodwork, although the bathrooms were so softly lit and the mirrors so dark that I over applied my lipstick and thought my skin looked better than it actually did. Job well done I guess?
The night ended with a small handful of us in a tiny basement bar in Soho, drinking martinis and listening to jazz while a motley crew of drunken revellers danced and sang.
After my Uber didn’t show up and I found myself in Trafalgar Square at 2.30am, I hopped on the night bus, something I hadn’t done in years, and made my way north to my daughter’s flat where I squished myself into her double bed, poor child. With no chance of catching the last train home to Margate, permission had been granted for a mum/daughter sleepover. I would buy breakfast.
Earlier in the evening my cousin - whose children are ten years behind my own - had marvelled at the fact that I was staying at my daughter’s home while away from my own. Having known my children since they were tiny and admired the way my ex-husband and I raised them, it was astonishing to him and his wife that I was now at a stage where she was hosting me. There is life after child rearing.
(Duck Island Cottage above, captured on my walk to a suffocatingly hot bus ride from Westminster to Peckham, and fuelling the fantasy of my next ugly house»pretty house renovation).
A sweet moment for me and one that only occurred to me when I found myself doing the exact same thing back in my own house, was seeing my daughter potter around in her kitchen before work the morning after I stayed over. Watering her plants, loading the washing machine, making coffee, a proper grown up at 26. I couldn’t have been more proud.
My two children grew up in homes where things were always changing. I was always fixing things up, moving furniture, painting murals on their walls. Our home in LA (my first bungalow) and our many rentals when we moved back to London 15 years ago were never perfect. They were always a work in progress, but I’m certain they would say that they felt like home.
Thankfully they both learnt about the joys of home, not by me sitting them down and saying this is how you do it, but by immersion in the often messy process. They learned about creating a space that you want to spend time in and that reflects their personalities and also suits their needs. They may currently be living in rented house shares in North and South London, but both of their spaces are very much their own.
Later in the week I trekked up to London once again, first seeing the Siena exhibition at The National Gallery which I don’t think I would’ve seen had my friend not bought us tickets. I’m unsure how much restoration had been done to the art, but the richly coloured pieces dating from 1300-1350 were still so vibrant that it made me highly annoyed that my colourful floral curtains, sewn last year, are already fading.
Later in the evening I found myself in a bar in Peckham to celebrate my ex-husband’s 50th birthday, where my son (who works there) mixed me a dangerously spicy margarita - I should’ve known when he donned black latex gloves to cut the chill (do NOT cut a Scotch Bonnet into your drink unless you can handle fire tongue. I am a spice freak).
We don’t spend time together as a family anymore. Divorce has that effect. But it ended up being such a fun night, my daughter there with her lovely boyfriend and one of my best friend’s making me dance to jungle in the basement like our old raving days. I would’ve stayed later and danced and drank more, but this time I really did have to get the last train home. I caught it with mere seconds to spare, as visions of sleeping on a bench in Victoria Station raced through my mind.
My daughter had impressed me with her morning pottering earlier in the week, but with my son it was that upon arrival at his South London flat to freshen up between the gallery and the bar, with my feet blistered from walking all day in London’s heat, he actually had plasters/bandaids. Not just regular ones either. Blister plasters, the pricey ones! He also had a clean towel to offer me after my freshening up and brought me, unrequested, a large glass of iced water to beat the 30 degree heat.
These might sound like small things and they are, but it is these small things that make up a big life. To see my kids living lives of their own creation in homes they pay for themselves in a city that eats up and spits out young people’s dreams with ferocious regularity, was the most precious gift.
Wishing you a joy filled day in this fear inducing world x
Beautiful 💖 I so appreciate you sharing your interesting life with us. The current Margate nest will be missed but can’t wait to see what’s next for you!
Just spent a week cleaning and organizing my son’s Paris flat like a 1950s housewife. Bravo to you for bringing up civilized children! I need to work on this.