The weekend just gone was glorious in all its insignificance. I suppose anything would have seemed like heaven after the weekend it followed. Saturday morning we overslept until our rumbling bellies forced us out to bed. We did the week's shopping and danced around the kitchen. For lunch, I met Helen at Lakeside, dining on salmon with a mango colis that tasted like summer. We hazily grabbed coffee in Costa before leaving, two hours a little late. The evening saw tapas starters; mussels in a tomato and chilli sauce, Rosemary salt bread, olives, king prawns, salad, wine and Peroni. Suite Francis pricked my eyes with salt water and left me wanting more all night. I re watched the trailer come morning. A part of me longs for buckled heels, hand written letters and a state of national disaster to get my heart racing.
M has told us little snippets of pregnant life that have made us laugh, gasp and have made reality of mamahood so real. Apparently you can't eat soft cheese. That's probably the least exciting fact but it's the one that has stuck in my mind. Since a little girl I've prepared myself to be a mama and now I'm finding out things that make me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I suppose life is funny like that.
Work is becoming like second nature, stock chasing, product creation, dealing with suppliers. It all seems like I've been doing it for years. It will be hard to be 'new' again - but without this, I fear the toxicity of routine will consume me. Speaking of which, Pete asked to bring our moving date forwards. As long as there is a job on the other end, I am happy to follow him to the ends of the earth. The thought of telling Sam and Andrew our plan terrifies and excites me. Ever more so that it could be this year and not next. We will see what happens, nothing will come to us overnight but I'm sure things will always love quicker than I am really ready for.
But are we ever really ready anyway?
