It's in Spitalfields, Fingers would be about 18 months, I think. We were all having a very tricky time: we'd moved house - and country - for the second time in a year, we were grieving, and I was juddering gently off the rails after a period of making far too many huge decisions and juggling too many responsibilities in a short space of time. But look, look at us. It's one of those little moments of pure joy. I remember having a lot of those, even at the worst of times then. I was so bloody glad to be out of Paris, for one thing and I loved living in Spitalfields, completely loved it. I could get an enormous amount of pleasure from just walking through the market and up Brick Lane. I need to get better at finding those kinds of tiny pleasures at the moment: it's been a long winter and I can't buy my treats at the moment, I have to find them in other ways. I am in a phase of Calvinist self-loathing which is doing no-one any good. It's odd; even though for large swathes of last year things were, objectively, far blacker than they are now, I seemed to be better at finding fun. This has to change, somehow, whether it's with books, strings of profanity and unicorns from friends, or the three short stemmed irises in my garden/slum.
The clue is partly in the picture, though, because look how that boy is making me laugh. He still does, he and his brother. They are daft and delightful and very, astonishingly, willing to cuddle me on demand. I worry a lot about not being up to scratch, I worry about worrying them. I worry about pretty much everything at the moment, so that's no surprise, but I particularly worry that my anxiety is leaching the joy out of things. I want to hold on to the tiny moments of pure pleasure, not to just be the miserable cow worrying about clearing up afterwards, or money, or The Future. I am going to try and be better at it. Next week, is half term and I am going to try and stop gnawing at my fur, and do some daft stuff with my lovely children. Horrible crimes against craft, and outings to poke things. The kind of stuff all three of us love.
Even if I am struggling slightly, I am still me. I know this, because I only realised I had to get to Waterloo an hour before I had to be there today. Then I called the GPS in the car I was forced to borrow in order to get there a "fucking bitch" and had to make an illegal turn across a dual carriageway. And when I got to my destination, late, I conducted a twenty minute interview with eyeliner all over my left hand and a sock on my shoulder (the interviewees did not mention the sock, it fell off in the car park as I left). I think the sock thing might just make my children laugh.