“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

So I am sitting in Dad’s kitchen with a glass of white wine, writing this at the breakfast counter with Norah Jones in the background. It’s giving middle class housewife. Had to carve out some time this evening for this writing session, I’ve been jotting down thoughts & ideas on my phone over the last couple of days ready to sit down and get some of it onto paper. The plan to write went quickly down the shitter when I realised earlier that part 1 of the Reah Housewives of New York reunion was out and there wasn’t a chance in fucking hell I was going to miss that, so it’s taken a little longer to get here. But, as my mum once told me, nothing ever goes to plan and that’s the fun of it. Not entirely sure that correlates with choosing reality TV over a healthy and productive writing session, but you know what guys, I chose me.

I’ve been reflecting a lot this week on connection, and openness, and I guess more specifically the type of connection we can experience when we are open to people. Reading that sentence back it kind of sounds like a croc of shit, but bear with me. I’ve just had quite a few experiences with people this week where it’s dawned on me, that in some way we are all kind of connected by this invisible thread as humans, and I personally believe that thread is the craving of connection, in some form or other. Let me tell you what I mean.

Purav and I were out for the afternoon on Tuesday (part timer) and had meandered our way down to lovely Dulwich village. What a gorgeous place guys? I had no idea. Anyway, we got off the bus and head straight for the boujee coffee shop (obviously), you know the type, minimum £4 for a latte, kind of rustic chic but mostly just a bit run down and lacking warmth. Perhaps it was because I was in a great mood, but I was just vibing so much with the women behind the counter. I mean let’s be real, probably (definitely) wasn’t that deep for her, but it was just such a lovely encounter and the three of us were all just kind of bouncing off each other. I do think my six months away definitely taught me something around opening up to new experiences, and I guess coming home has reminded me that a conversation with a randomer is itself an entirely new experience, and maybe it’s those seemingly small things that also deserve the same level of openness. I was reminded of this quote by Annie Dillard the other day.. “How we spend our days, is of course how we spend our lives”.  

I won’t lie, that quote trips me the fuck out, but also gives me a kick up the arse to remember that this is it, this is life, it doesn’t start next year when I get to go away again, or tomorrow when I wake up and work out, like we are in it. I find that both incredibly scary and really hopeful. But anyway, I got there because of this really low-key, probably very unimportant conversation with the lady at Redemption Roasters in Dulwich village. It made me ponder on this idea that joy can come in small packages, and in ways that don’t seem joyous on the outside, or maybe in comparison to what we often think joy is, but I came out that coffee shop with such a spring in my step. That’s so cringey, but I really mean it. I do also ponder on whether that entire encounter was entirely narcissistic and if she was just being polite and is like that with everyone, and if I was just taking what I wanted away from that encounter. I haven’t decided yet, not sure I want to know, and on this occasion, ignorance is bliss.

I understand I’ve made a bit of a meal out a coffee, but it has honestly stuck with me. I won’t go into how I felt after somebody in a wheelchair asked me for directions.

So I’ve come to stay at Dad’s this week as he’s away and the peace and quiet has honestly been bliss. South West London is full of wankers, and a really creepy amount of rowing, but it’s also green and luscious and there is a Gails on every other road. Last night I was having an evening of guilt free tv watching, like pure and simple laying on the sofa while scrolling and hardly concentrating on the tv and ramming chocolate in my mouth kind of vibe. It was heaven. I have to do that more. I am so racked with guilt when I sit on the sofa in the evenings, it’s kind of lame because I’m really not that busy or important, but I feel this urgency to be productive. Last night was a reminder that being a sexy slob is enough. Anyway, I was midway through my dinner (salmon and veg, on a health kick (not at all) because I have replaced nicotine (mon-fri) with an inordinate number of snacks) when there was a knock on the door. I answered the door, plate in hand, and it was Sally, Dad’s neighbour asking if I could help fix her TV. Initially I felt kind of put out… I WAS EATING MY SALMON, SALLY. I put my dinner down and went over to help her, well try to. Naturally I couldn’t fix the TV because I’m not a man. No but really, I tried, really hard, but I actually did not have a clue what I was doing. I rebooted the TV like four times and then subtly tried to tell her I couldn’t do it, and probed if there was anyone else she could ask for help. I was low key trying to get out of there, but I could feel she wanted to chat, so I went to get my (cold) dinner and bring it over to hers to eat it there. She clearly wanted some company. I spent about an hour with her, probably not enough to be honest, but turns out her husband had died very recently after fifty-two years together. She was sitting across from me with a vodka (fair play) being quite open about the fact that having to adjust to a life without someone you’ve been with for what feels like forever, is unequivocally brutal and incredibly challenging. To hear someone be so frank about grief was almost uncomfortable to listen to, she was so obviously hurting. I think this is what I mean when I talk about connection, or craving connection, or this sense of the shared experience of being alive that we can feel sometimes. In some way, even if it’s that, being listened to. Actually, being listened to is all it is sometimes, it’s so deeply needed by people. I think the feelings human connection can bring are almost hard to put into words. I felt in that moment that she wanted to talk, and I think (hope) that me eating my dinner with her bought her even the tiniest bit of joy, or maybe respite? Respite feels more fitting. Not because it was me, but because it was some form of connection on a dark autumn evening where maybe she was craving it. And her TV was broken and I couldn’t fucking fix it.

Was that me like low-key bragging about how generous and kind-spirited I am? Perhaps, but not intentionally I promise!!!!

Anyway, I’ve had a lovely week here. Today I went to see Khalid, who’s Palestinian and spoke in depths about the strife of his people. It was incredibly educational and eye opening to hear him speak about the history of the conflict, some of it I knew, most of it I didn’t. Particularly eye opening to hear just how deep the political corruption between parts of the Gulf & the West run. He’s one hell of a guy and is in real pain for the country he was born in. A pain few of us could ever really know.

As I was leaving, he asked if he could give me some advice. Obviously, I said yes;

“When it comes to relationships, don’t think too much… just live.”

And on that note, I’ll leave it there.

Thanks for reading guys (whoever’s still clinging on!!!). I am going to finish this slice of toast, feel really really guilty for twenty minutes about eating at 10pm and then do it all again tomorrow. It’s the days that make up our lives guys!

Until next time,

Lily xx