…because I am dedicated to this one post per month thing. DEDICATED. I am in Devon and it’s April and I never got round to blogging March. And I was in the North the weekend before and thus am slightly discombobulated. March is a funny month isn’t it? Or maybe that’s just me. March is a very reflective time for me. Ridiculous impromptu things always happen to me in March which point up stuff about the past, and foreshadow stuff that’s in the future (sometimes waaaaay in the future.) I can’t get through a week in March without thinking about loves past (massive concentration of late March/early April birthdays in my lovelife, what’s that about?) jobs been and gone (show me a March I haven’t switched jobs and I’ll show you…well a rather boring career stretch between 2006 and 2009) or some hilarious twist in my academic career (woah, my latest is 85 on an essay – EIGHTY. FIVE. I’m probably not allowed to put that on the open internet but hey, I just did.) The biggest thing that’s sticking this March was a trip I took to London in March 2003. I came with a boy I shouldn’t have done, who should have known better and messed about and had a lovely time. As part of this lovely time we chipped to the bar at the Royal Festival Hall and stood out on the terrace drinking vodka and lemonade (well I was. I don’t know what he was drinking.) And I looked and I looked at the river and I felt something but I didn’t know what. And now, of course, I am working just over the river from the bar. I see it on my way home each evening and walk under it on my way in more often that not (cos I love love love walking over Hungerford Bridge and through Victoria Embankment Gardens to get in to work. It’s the best.) And every time I think of past-me and try to reach back and say that it will all actually be okay. And I think past-me must hear because… well. Because I did feel that, when I was stood there with my voddy. I did feel that eventually SOMEHOW everything was probably going to be alright. Although I also remember wondering how on earth that would be possible. And this March I reconnected with someone I hadn’t seen in so so so long, and it was amaze amaze and now I am sad we live so far from each other. It was some guy I met when I was at school and he was just starting out teaching (despite obviously being aware of this, I still managed to accessorise for our dinner date with..uh… a satchel. Good look Fleming.) And of course when you are at school and someone is a teacher they are approximately A MILLIONTY years old. Imagine my shock as he came striding along Deansgate looking younger than me (well, not quite, but almost. He was equally shocked by my accent, so it sorta balances out.) Turns out he is six months older than my husband, which basically makes me feel weird. But in a good way. I am enjoying thirty/my thirties. They feel kinda… powerful. While I was up in the North I went out walking a route I would walk over and over in my teens and it felt good to reconnect. I think it might be a Yorkshire thing. That it’s important to reconnect with the land from time to time. I feel quite energised by the whole thing. The novel is continuing apace. The only other thing I have to say about this March is BACK OFF ILL HEALTH, just, you know, JUST STEP THE FUCK DOWN and away from my friends. Ok? Ok. I am sure me putting that on the internet will totally fix everything. But if anyone has any spare good karma, waft it in the general direction of my buddies, will ya? I need them.
In April I am going to a wedding on the 29th. Oh yes. Can’t wait. And… well I’m on holiday. My sandwiches have remained seagull-free, thus far. But I should really get back to all the important lazing about I have scheduled.
