Thoughts and Contemplations

A CONVERSATION WITH MY 13-YEAR OLD SELF

| sophiekemsley

Many people who know me will know that I’ve written a complete diary entry, every single day, for thirty years. I didn’t intend to, but once you get into the habit of something like that, you can’t quite stop.

The diaries are personal. I started them in the interest of recording all the things I didn’t want to forget, but over the years they’ve been a valuable way for me to process my thoughts and feelings too. This was particularly useful during childhood, when things were ever-changing at pace.

I was very lucky to have a stable and generally happy upbringing. When I post what I’m about to post, I want to make it clear that I acknowledge and appreciate that. But – like a lot of young people – I really struggled with anxiety.

Throughout my teens, I had zero confidence in myself. I felt different to everybody else, hated my appearance, and was often ridiculed and laughed at by the ‘cool’ girls for being a bit “weird”, because I enjoyed different music and could be a bit quirky.

And I looked the way I did. I was regularly referred to as Bugs Bunny because of my teeth and – on one particularly damning occasion that I can fortunately laugh about now – Robbie from Eastenders, because of my straggly hair (as well as the teeth, again).

Some lines stay in your head forever:

“You’re SO sad. You know that don’t you?!“ (First week of secondary school, from a girl who’d gone to the same primary school so I felt had the evidence to say this. Ouch.)

“What’s wrong, Sophie? Did you look in a mirror?!” (Year 11. Same girl and her friend. Double ouch.)

I often felt that nobody really liked me because of these things, which as a child is a really nasty yet very common way to feel. In reality I had many lovely friends at school, and though time and distance can naturally cause some friendships to drift, they will always have a special place in my heart because of what we learned about life together. The problem at the time, was that I just didn’t understand why they’d want to hang around with me. I didn’t even want to hang around with me, because it would have meant having to look at my face, and I didn’t even like looking at myself in a mirror, which probably explains why I often looked a bit of a mess. Vicious cycle.

But this isn’t a ‘woe is me’, because the reality was that I was far, far from alone in being the target of ridicule.

My form at school earned a lovely nickname within the wider year group: ‘Slags and Weirdos‘. I never needed to ask which category I fell into. In the earlier years of secondary school there was a bit of an in-form rivalry between the two of us because we were so different, but by the end of year 11, we all seemed to gel. Maybe it was a mutual respect following the shared experience of being judged by others, but it showed to me at an early age the value of trying to understand and respect people’s individual stories, even – especially – if on the surface they differ from our own. The importance of recognising that all groups have their own challenges and experiences. The ‘Slags and Weirdos’ had more in common than they initially realised, and we were the best form because of it. Go the A’s.

And I know that this kind of social politics still goes on in schools today, that young people are struggling more than ever with their mental health, either with anxiety like I had or things much more serious. I feel for them, I really do, particularly in the advent of social media, where the judgement and bullying can be constant, and not just confined within school walls.

Whenever I read through my old diaries, there are so many occasions when I just want to respond, to go back in time and reassure or advise myself from the future. I obviously can’t do that, but writing this feels like the next best thing.  Who knows, maybe the 65 year old me will feel like doing similar after reading back over the 2026 diary. A lot of our life is only really understood or contextualised in time. That’s how it works.

Much of the content below will seem trivial. It is trivial, and that’s why my responses are mostly in jest, but the problem is that I didn’t know that at the time. The fact is, that it was a very upset thirteen year old girl writing some of these entries, and whilst I personally think it’s healthy to be able to laugh at ourselves – which is why I do so throughout this post – I don’t want that sentiment to be forgotten.

Why am I sharing this? Well for one thing, I’ve been trying to work out for years how to make some use of my diaries, since I’ve spent so many years writing them.  The other reason is that I think sometimes, even within the furthest flung corners of the Internet, things are found when they need to be. If any youngsters come across this page at any point in the future – my nieces and nephews perhaps – then I hope it can help to reassure you of the power of perspective and time, and why many of the things you’re stressing about now really don’t matter, or that they’ll pass.

I deliberated whether sharing photos from the actual diaries – as opposed to just typed quotes – would be appropriate or ‘too much’. In the end I decided to share them. That way you know the words haven’t been altered or embellished to make for better or more impactful reading, like so many other things are these days. They are a child’s real thoughts and feelings. They were never written with a wider audience in mind, and there was no reason to try and hide or fabricate anything.

So here you have it. A conversation with my 13 year old self, part 1, when we head back to early 1999. This was my first page-to-a-day diary, the first year that the entries started to properly contain feelings as well as facts. My original plan was to do a full year, but within just two months, there was already so much I wanted to say… and that alone speaks for itself.

Names have been obscured and replaced with *** where appropriate.

“I’m really depressed that it’s back to school on Monday, every day something bad and worrying happens, it’s only good on Fridays when we don’t have too many different lessons.”

“There will come a time when you actually miss a lot of things about school, even double Maths on a Monday morning with Mrs Dey (what a legend, by the way. You thought she was evil, but now you realise it all came from a place of care. And in 2024, when you find out she has long passed away, you will actually feel very sad, and regret writing that poem about her in year 9).

You ‘worked’ a 6 hour day which included over an hour of pissing around playing cards at lunch. Bin Duty was once a term as opposed to every single day. You didn’t have to worry about bills or income. The only thing you were really compelled to do was go and learn about new and interesting things all week. You’d love to be able to do that now.”

“Absolute shit day!! There was me, tootling to skool all optimistic, only to find out that ***** knew about the Steps dance we were doing. She was really upset and now the group has split in two.”

“The sad thing here (aside from the fact you were planning to do a dance rendition of ‘Tragedy’ by Steps in the school talent show), is that you had been uncomfortable about leaving her out from the start, but you didn’t have the courage to voice it. You were more concerned about being included in the dance yourself, even if it meant others – like one of your favourite friends – missing out. That’s the real ‘tragedy’ here, and it was a really shitty thing to do. You’ll eventually learn that you must always listen to your gut feeling and align your actions with your values, but admittedly it’s harder to do that at your age, when you’re still working out what those values are…

By the way, in years to come – starting as soon as year 9 – you will ALL be laughing about the fact you fell out over this. So that weekend you wasted feeling grey and sick about this, worrying you’d lost those friendships forever… you really didn’t need to.”

“I’ve heard a cool song called ‘Pretty Fly for a White Guy’ by The Offspring. It’s cool. I heard it in HMV. I’m a goth, it’s official. Chart music today sucks (apart from BSB and 5ive – who are obvious exceptions). Heavy metal kicks ass! The songs have a meaning other than, ‘Oh I’ve just decided I love U‘

“Oh, Sophie. Cringe. The Offspring are NOT goth, nor are they heavy metal, they’re pop punk. You’re not a goth, although you’ll try to be one in 2001 when you start wearing lots of black and burning incense in your bedroom whilst listening to Belladonna & Aconite from your big sister’s Inkubus Sukkubus CD on repeat and using words like ‘wiccan’ on internet chatrooms even though you have no idea what it actually means.”

“Ya know, as a goth, people may think I’m sad, but they’re all a bunch of saddoes anyway. Live and Let Live. Peace to goths worldwide.”

“Hahaha. You’re still not a goth, three days later. And now you’re being judgemental about other’s musical tastes too. Practice what you preach, though you’re right in expressing solidarity with a minority.”

“I’m a little depressed about something. I don’t know any boys. I mean sure, there’s ***** and that lot but no more and it’s not as if I always see them. I hate my school, if it weren’t for my friends I’d want to leave, but (Rickmansworth School) is too weird. I guess I sound like a snob now, but it’s true, go to Ricky, prepared to be bullied if you’re larger than a 10 and look ugly like me (the ugly bit only, I’m size 8). I just hope things work for me like they did for (sister).”

“You’ll start meeting boys and having boyfriends in a couple of years, and the ensuing drama and general cacophony will make you realise why you’re happy to attend an all girls school. A comparatively peaceful oasis within the nonsense.

You will get offered a place at Ricky for sixth form but you will be delighted that you don’t need to accept it and can stay where you are. So you don’t really hate your school afterall.”

“Right, today was fairly bad. Everything was OK until lunch. ***, *** and *** did impressions of me doing (the) Tragedy (dance), but just as (a) joke, which I’m aware of. I needed the loo so I got up and left the classroom. ***, *** and *** followed me out to see if I was okay, and I turned a bit tearful. I’m sorry I can’t do the stupid dance.”

“Okay, firstly, you need to accept the fact you’ll never get any better at coordinated dance (or any dancing, for that matter). Secondly, why on earth did they think a self-confessed ‘goth’ would make a great member of faux Steps! You don’t even like Steps. They should have just asked *** in the first place, if nothing else it would have saved the dramas of 08/01/1999. Whoever organised that bloody talent contest had a lot of tears to answer for!”

“At my party, she completely took over the CD player, we only listened to songs she liked. She knew I hated Billie music so she deliberately had that on.”

“Well thank goodness she (really nice girl, by the way) did take over the CD player at the party. Nobody would have wanted to listen to Weezer or Nirvana, just you (and possibly Emily), and you can do that in your own time. And one day, chart music will pine for something like the innocent, upbeat tones of Billie Piper. You might feel embarrassed to know that when you’re an ‘old lady’ (you know, 40) you’ll be straight on the dance-floor when that same song chimes in on 90’s nights. Because you want to. Genuinely. Pop music at the moment is the best, you don’t realise how good your generation has it. Keep her on DJ duty!”

“Hockey with Emma. There is a very fit boy there, I have a feeling he’s been noticed by me last year walking home. He’s from the Boys’ School, I could tell because he had Boys’ school gym socks on. He has dark hair in a style to Jordan from NKOTB. I’M GOING TO HOCKEY MORE OFTEN!!”

“You will never see him ever again, Sherlock. But you WILL see the real Jordan Knight, performing in Manchester in 2012. The rest of the New Kids will be there too. Yes, even Joey. The one you cried about last year because you fancied him so much but he lives in the States (and also has zero interest in meeting you, as he sits in his mansion with his beautiful blonde wife and millions of dollars).“

“My life really sucks!! I’m fed up with all this arguing at school. *** and *** went off again at lunch, *** was upset, *** has been quiet all day. *** and *** feel sorry for *** and I’m just alone. If *** and *** become best friends, who am I going to be best friends with? I’ll just go with ***, but *** and *** don’t get on well. I’m sick of this. I want to be ***’s best friend. I h8 this (oh look I’m so stressed I’m repeating myself). It’s going to be impossible to have 1 good day, and I’m going to say so at lunch tomorrow. I’ll say, “look, it’s no good pretending everything’s dandy (ok, crap word). We must talk and be rational about this.”

“Christ. Where to start with this chaos… maybe just know that in as far away as 2024 you’ll go for brunch in St Albans with at least half the people mentioned in this entry, where you will spend a great deal of time reminiscing and laughing about dramas such as this one. Real friends stay, and you can look forward to meeting your very best friends in the years to come. That’s all you need to know right now.”

“I feel so stupid! Everything’s muffed up because of me! When I asked *** 2 join our group, it upset a few people aka *** and *** and I think maybe *** They were upset because I’d not asked anyone about it first. I understand why they’re upset and I feel so stupid! Now *** and *** have left the group and even sat somewhere different at lunch. I have a feeling someone is in a mood with me, well actually I know they are, the thing is I don’t know who. *** refuses to call us a group.”

“I’m glad you were considering ways to conserve valuable energy (and ink) when you wrote “2” instead of “to”. It’s a shame you expended that same energy on feeling way more upset about this than you needed to. You’ll all be friends again before the week is out anyway. Please stop crying about this. It’s really not worth it. Watch some TV instead, pick up a new book, learn to paint, spend time with your parents and make the most of the free cake on the days out at all those old houses and gardens.

And sometimes people just like to sit in different places at lunch to switch up the scenery. Don’t let overthinking become a habit…”

“Went to hockey with Emma. Unfortunately, the fit boy wasn’t there, but I hope he’ll be there next week or else!”

“Saddest love story ever known. He won’t be there next week, and neither will you. You and Emma will start bunking off from hockey club and cycle around the park for an hour instead before going back to her house to play Paperboy on the Sega. You’ll lie to your parents but the probability is they know this already. The shite hockey skills and lack of bruises kinda give it away.”

“At lunch some girls came up to me and implied that I looked like a boy they knew. I’m insulted!”

“Yeah. Comments like this don’t really help with the hang-ups, and the fact you’ll still be able to visualise this exact moment – some year 10s near the stairs by the modern language department – in 2026 isn’t great. But whatever, hopefully it was a fit boy at least. Or one that will grow into a hot man. Maybe it could be worse.”

“Confusing day. I felt that *** and *** were both in a mood with me and I had no idea why. I think it’s because I didn’t tell them what *** told me yesterday about *** and the legs.”

“Trying to second guess what people are thinking and feeling is – and will always be – exhausting. Just ask them, instead of overthinking. Chances are they’re thinking about Wagon Wheels and German homework as opposed to some idle gossip about some ‘legs’ (wtf).

“*** lent me her old mobile phone, it’s so I can look all cool in front of ***”

…

*Slams head on desk*

“Ooh! Today was scary! In PSE Miss Brown caught me writing, ‘I HATE PSE’ in big pink writing all over one of the pages of my rough book. She had a go at me after school.”

“Put the pink pen firmly back in the cylindrical Bang-on-the-door pencil case and stop defacing your rough book. You won’t realise it yet, but PSE is actually one of the more important of all the classes. You might find the Resusci-Annies mildly terrifying – who doesn’t- but this is more important than learning about tectonic plates, and more important than learning about parabolas (word last used in 2002). Just because there’s no exam on it, doesn’t mean you mustn’t listen. And that’s exactly why Miss Brown shouted at you about this, because she knew how important it was too.”

“I received my fake Valentine card. The poem inside is sick man!”

“You’ll remember it word for word for years to come, because you keep it:

‘Dear Sophie, your eyes are like shining grapefruits. Your lips bloom like Venus fly traps. From HB‘

Fair play to whichever creative genius wrote that. Even though it was sent in jest… still one of the best you’ll ever have.”

“Valentines day, the one day of the year that is the same all the time – I never receive any cards! I mean, I don’t exactly expect people to dish out money on a crummy looking card for me or anything, but it just adds more proof to my famous hypothesis- I’m UGLY”

“You have literally just received a Valentines card from your childhood crush. We can ignore the fact it was a joke. You can’t be that ugly anyway, your eyes are like shining grapefruits, apparently.”

“*** told me that *** thinks I’m annoying – because I help people with their problems.”

“It will never matter what anyone does – or doesn’t – do. Somebody, somewhere, will always have a problem with it. Even in adulthood. But the useful thing is that they’ll never be the sort of people you wish to have in your life anyway, so stop caring about what they think and only concern yourself with the opinions of those whose opinions you actually value. “

And to end with something light…

“Went to Tesco’s. It was sooo embarrassing!! I was walking down the frozen food aisle, fiddling with my retainer in my mouth – when suddenly it fell out and went rolling along the floor – bouncing too. I knelt down (on) the floor and I couldn’t find it then this lady comes along and points to it, ‘Is that what you’re looking 4?’ “.

“I’m telling you this after two whole rounds of braces and an ongoing interest in Invisalign, because if you were still in school right now you’d probably still be getting referred to as ‘Bugs’:

Stop.Fiddling.With.That.Retainer. And wear it EVERY night. Forever”

To be continued…

THE TRUTH ABOUT TURNING FORTY

| sophiekemsley

Ten years ago, I wrote an article on this blog called “The Truth About Turning Thirty“.

Of all the 164858273 (or however many) articles I’ve written here, it’s still one of few that has had a life beyond this website. Thought Catalog published it, it had thousands of views worldwide, and was warmly received by a number of friends and acquaintances who shared it further.

An executive summary of “The Truth About Turning Thirty”? Well, essentially, it was about ignoring societal expectations and realising that ‘milestone’ years end up being a bit of an anti climax, and nothing to dread. In many ways, turning thirty was a relief. Didn’t have to think about it anymore.

Back in 2016 when I shared the article, a few older friends asked if I would do a similar piece in the future about turning forty. I remember wincing at that prospect at the time: “Forty?! I mean, I’ve just about handled turning thirty. Forty will be a whole new kettle of fat, oily fish. Really not looking forward to that one.”

If I’d historically thought I’d be married with children by thirty, then forty was a whole new thing. Not only should I have definitely had a family of my own by that point – and beaten that biological clock so many warned of – I should have also nearly paid off my mortgage by then too, be worshipping Himalayan salt lamps and all things magnolia, wearing cream linen suits to buy yoghurt-coated macadamias in M&S, and preparing for early retirement.

Or so I thought.

(An image which proves why AI isn’t a complete threat to art 😉)

The reality is, I’ve still not married. In fact, the closest I’ve ever got to an engagement is putting a beef Hula Hoop on my forefinger whilst snacking, and I’m unlikely to ever be a mother. One thing our generation of females was brought up leading to believe was a must do in life, is pretty much not ever happening for me (for a number of personal reasons beyond age, plenty of people become mothers after 40)… but, the Earth hasn’t imploded afterall. My mortgage is still massive and – thanks to the state of today’s economy – I’m probably going to have to carry on working when I’m a skeleton that’s been six feet under for 50 years.

But the interesting thing?

I care even less about any of that than I did when I was ten years younger.

Because there are two things that happen concurrently as you age, and they both repel each other slightly.

The first is that you think you should be continuously developing, progressing, moving forwards, and all that jazz. Just like all those well-intended lifestyle influencers on social media, who punctuate their prose with new-age words like ‘up-levelling’ and ‘manifesting’ – and who make us feel guilty for drinking Pepsi Max instead of turmeric-infused liquidised tree moss – suggest.

The second is that you have an ever growing appreciation of how fragile life actually is. And that if you’re just here, breathing, seeing, experiencing – then actually that’s enough – and that thinking about the next goal, whilst having its place and purpose sometimes, can actually become quite exhausting if constant, and detract from the things most precious.

And the latter of those two things is the one I find myself bowing into the most these days. A global pandemic that fell within my ’30s contributed massively to that. Remember that weird time, when suddenly we all realised how the smallest things – like shopping for groceries and finding one person to walk with – were actually exciting, and what mattered the most?

Maybe because they are. Always were, always will be.

After something like that, all those social milestones which had been plotted into the land ahead got dug up and chucked into a household refuse tip along with all the other fads of the past.

But even without a pandemic, I think it still would have happened.

In essence, the older you get the more you realise that time and headspace is better spent on the things we have than what we don’t have, and how precious time is. It’s nice to dream about tomorrow, but not at the expense of today, which is incidentally the only time we ever really have.

And then – as much as we wish to deny it – there’s a third element too. One which wasn’t as visible at 30. One which I hadn’t felt the need to account for when I was ten years younger, writing my previous piece.

It’s that of age, and the natural impacts it has on the body. Key limbs or organs beginning to struggle (for me it’s my peepers, damn you, recurrent corneal erosion…). Lines on the skin requiring more and more latherings of cream. Grey strands battling the brunettes and blondes for ownership of your head, making you feel less like Cruella and more like a full-on witch, pining for the halycon – by comparison – Cruella days of the past. The body slows whilst the days and weeks around it seem to accelerate.

The brutal truth that we are closer to the end than when we turned 30, even if we still – hopefully – have a long while to wait.

And what does that really mean?

It means ‘just press play‘.

Just effing press it.

Dance to the song that’s playing right now. Though there may not be as many DJ’s, cocktails and 2am boxes of fried chicken to go with it as there were ten years ago, there’s still a rhythm in there somewhere. But, if it’s taking a little while to detect it, then it’s also fine to take a rest for a bit. (‘Superstition’ by Stevie Wonder always served a great purpose as being a good time for a loo break in order to get back in time to celebrate the impending arrival of the Vengabus).

And eat more beef Hula Hoops.

Because ageing – turning forty – really isn’t a bad thing. At all.

(See you again when I’m 50. If I haven’t abandoned all things internet to join a magnolia-worshipping, tree-moss eating cult on some remote island in the Pacific).

MEDITATION, FROM A STATION

| sophiekemsley

There are certain things that feel hard to admit in public, particularly as a 40 year old female. But here we go:

I really don’t like yoga.

And that’s surprising, because as someone who’s always been in touch with my more spiritual side, yoga feels like the sort of thing I should love. And I really, really wanted to. But, after years of attempts that always concluded with me counting down the minutes until the end of the sessions, or having the instructor move my limbs to where they needed to be, I realised that I just… don’t. It’s a no-ga from me. I’ve downward-dogged for the last ever time, no more chances, or time wasted trying to like something that I probably never will.

I get why other people like it, though. I think all of us can benefit from more mindfulness within our daily lives, but what I’ve come to learn is that it doesn’t always have to be about things as disciplined as yoga, or meditating in a quiet room with strangers in a pretzel-shaped pose (and probably paying £15 an hour to do so). Instead, I think mindfulness and meditative activity can be practised anywhere, anytime, it’s just about figuring out what way feels right for you.

The other week I had to catch a train to London. Usually, I’d spend that time in the same way that most others do: doom-scrolling on my phone. Catching up with life admin. Conversing with people via WhatsApp. Watching reels about AI cats eating pastries. Basically, anything that fills up the time and makes the journey go faster… but pretty much always looking at a phone.

On this occasion though, I wanted to do something slightly different. I challenged myself not to look at my phone once throughout the journey, and to look out the window the whole time whilst listening to music (electronica, without any distracting lyrics) instead. To ensure my mind wouldn’t wander beyond what was right in front of me, I decided to jot down in my notebook all the things I saw along the way. Constantly. Pen to never leave the page, to ensure I didn’t drift. And here’s the output of those notes…

Technically speaking the first thing I observe are the golden, flakey remnants of my seat’s previous occupant’s sausage roll. It’s hardly the most inspiring start to my mindfulness challenge, but I did instruct myself to write down everything. And to some people, myself included at times (usually if hungover), a sausage roll pretty much is everything. So yes. This is a perfectly acceptable start, and I manage to swiftly shut down the resurfacing memories of all the best sausage rolls I’ve ever eaten (Wall’s caramelised onion circa 2012) to focus back on the here and now.

Succumbed to using AI for this image, because my phone ban during the journey also meant taking no photos!

The train rolls out of Faversham and I look out over a bunch of buildings, some of which are the homes of people I know, or knew. The house where my grandad grew up. The churchyard many of my relatives are buried at. My friend Dan’s house. The paddocks which were so lovely to walk around during the otherwise weird, balmy Summer of 2020. The grade II former manor house with the flat I looked around in 2018 which I really wanted but couldn’t afford, and still think about to this day.

The buildings become more and more sparse as we drift towards Teynham. Kentish orchards exposed by the December sunlight, their fruits both a distant memory and a chapter waiting to happen.

New housing developments: we need them, but why do they all have to look the same?

Sittingbourne. I always like to look out the window here, not for the aesthetics – of which there aren’t all that many in fairness – but for the fact my grandmother spent many happy years calling it home. The train runs adjacent to her housing estate and I’m amused by the fact her garage door has still not been painted in over 25 years – pillar box red when I was a little girl, now patchy and pastel. Maybe the white ’80’s Fiat is still behind it, and maybe grandma is still in the house, waiting to dish us up a plate of fishcakes and mushy peas and ask us how our journey was.

“Quite long actually, grandma. 18 years in fact.”

As we get ever closer to the Medway towns, I think about how – despite the downsides, like cost and waiting around on cold platforms with boney seats – train travel allows us to see so much of the area we live in ways that driving doesn’t allow for. This is far more interesting than the M2, and it reminds me of how beautiful and diverse a landscape Kent has.

Some washing hangs from a line in Twydall – a row of vests in blacks, browns and greys – before we pass a large cemetery. The winter sun is beating down over rows upon rows of headstones, shining light and life over those gone but not forgotten.

I can still remember where I was, and exactly what I was doing, when I learnt that the place is not pronounced “Twye-dall” but “Twidd-all”, and it still amuses me as much now as it did then.

“This post is starting to read like a load of old Twydall”, I imagine the reader starting to think at this point… and that would be a fair point to make, but I’ve yet to look at my phone on this train…

I spot the stadium of Gillingham F.C – Kent’s leading football club – but not for long, I predict. Surely Faversham Town F.C will take that crown soon? Champions of Europe, 2035. You heard it here first… there’ll be a procession around the Guildhall and the building which was once ‘Annette’s Baguettes’ and everything.

The train pulsates the veins of Chatham as we travel along the bottom of some steep verges. They are strewn with the gifts from fly-tippers and litterbugs: a jerry can here, a child’s plastic wheelbarrow there, all scattered about like some Generation Game finale, there to observe then try and regale from memory in a list.:

“Wheelbarrow. Cuddly toy. Typewriter. Empty Lucozade bottle!”

It’s always Lucozade bottles, and I’ve no idea why or how, since it’s not even the most popular soft drink. Maybe their slightly awkward, tall shape makes them harder to fit into bins? Or maybe – given the association with exercise – consumers prefer to try drop-kicking or throwing them in but miss, in a sign that they need to train more.

I’m thinking way too much about the aerodynamics of Lucozade bottles at this point, but I still haven’t looked at my phone.

At the next station, we begin to see the growing numbers of people with wheely suitcases. It’s fun to try and guess where they’re going, using the size of their cases to determine whether it’s a short or long break. There is a sense that the hustle and bustle will only increase from this point, as we get closer to the capital. Empty seats will become rarer gems, as more and more people – and sausage rolls – board the train to occupy them. I best move my bag.

Rochester, an historic old town peppered with lots of pretty old buildings and some not so nice new ones. The castle stands proudly at the top of the hill, and there’s even a sign to tell us exactly what we’re looking at!

Oh wait, no, that’s just a sign for the “Castle Hand Car Wash” that sits some streets beneath it. Not quite as postcard perfect as it could be.

“England’s largest second-hand bookshop” – Baggins Book Bazaar – is still there and visible from the train, but it no longer seems to have its claim to fame painted on the back of the building. Does that mean that there’s now a larger second-hand bookshop somewhere in the country? If so, what a gutting thing to have to do in having to paint over all that. I have only visited that bookshop once, which incidentally is the same amount of times I’ve visited Rochester, but it was quite an experience, – almost needed a map to navigate my way around – and am still very surprised that I was ever able to get out.

Many people get on board at Strood, which feels surprising since this is one of the smaller of the Medway towns. There isn’t a whole lot to see here, just Peking Express, which doesn’t appear to look overly inviting but nonetheless probably serves some tasty satay skewers. My belly rumbles.

We enter the first of the many long Victorian railway tunnels which will punctuate the rest of this trainline as we get into London. We are well and truly feeling the creeping clutch of the capital’s gnarly fingers at this point, the land around us turning from vibrant green into a more dismal grey. The buildings become taller, the sky starts to feel heavier, and everything is feeling a little bit busier. The back gardens are looking more and more unkempt, and I know less about this part this part of Kent, but have heard – multiple times – that it has lots of beauty to offer. I can believe that, as I scope the rolling golden hills in the background.

When the train arrives at London Bridge, I finally check my phone. All I’ve missed is a message confirming the meeting place, and an e-mail about my most recent utility bill.

But I haven’t missed much else. In two senses.

By the way, Lucozade bottle. Just because it’s been a few paragraphs, and they’re usually scattered about everywhere.



A SOLO STAY IN THE WOODS

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“You’re never really alone in the woods…”

These words were said during a recent talk I attended by a wonderful local author, Simon Pollard. The sentence does sound a bit like the premise to a low budget slash-horror movie. Blair Witch springs to mind.

“…how can you be, when you’re surrounded by so many different living species, including the trees.”

I went on to learn from him that trees have heartbeats, albeit very slow ones. I was amazed by that (though probably wouldn’t want to admit to my tree surgeon brother that I hadn’t been aware of it before).

I’ve always adored and appreciated nature, even though I often feel that I know so little about it. Sometimes I feel that that makes me a bit of a fraudulent fan, but you don’t need to be able to identify every tree or be literate in compostable irrigation to truly enjoy it.

All you really need to do, is observe it, in every sense. To look at it. Hear it. Feel it. Inhale it. And yeah, you can taste it too… but you kinda need to know what you’re doing if you want to go down that route. I certainly don’t, but a foraging course with somebody who does is definitely on the bucket list.

You also need to treat it with the same respect you’d give any other living being. Don’t do any harm to it, and let it simply be itself.

I had a week off work and knew I needed a change of scene rather than be in the same flat I work from every day, but I didn’t really fancy going too far away. I found a gorgeous bell tent on Air BnB in a village 20 minutes from home and decided to head there for a few days to focus on my writing and do some new blog posts, like this one.

The description of the site included a lot of words like “remote” and “secluded”. To some people these are scary words, and in normal life, they are to me as well, but for this purpose, they were perfect.

To get there I needed to drive along a number of tiny country lanes that I’d never been down before despite having lived so close to them for years. It was late afternoon on the hottest day in June, and the sun was beating down a golden glow over the Syndale Valley. I could only catch quick glimpses as I was too paranoid about having a head-on collision with a tractor, but whenever I did, I felt a similar glow within.

I was greeted by a very sunny, cheerful lady – the BnB owner – and was then left to my own devices in what was definitely a remote, secluded location in the woods. But it didn’t feel like it. Anything but, actually.

There were birds. Lots and lots of them. I can’t tell you what they were because I’m no ornithologist, but maybe somebody who is can identify them for me from the below phonetics:

“Twiddlywoowootwit” (or maybe they were just insulting me, I guess I am a bit of a twit at times).

“Twt. Twt. Twt. Twt. Twt” (okay. There’s no need to labour the point!)

“mmmHMMHMM,hmmhmm” (fairly sure that one’s a wood pigeon. Think I know that one. Either that or it’s just a bird agreeing with all the other ones that spoke before it. B***h).

Having been sufficiently besmirched by my bird friends I wandered down to the meadow like the cheerful lady had recommended, and came across a gate which opens up to a beautiful looking valley. I wasn’t driving and there were no tractors to worry about at this point, so I could really afford to take it all in.

What a peaceful, glorious, hidden gem in the heart of Kent. A giant golden ingot in the middle of nowhere.

A few miles away from here, people are currently jammed on the ring road in Maidstone. A few miles in the other direction, they’re at the Costa drive-through in Sittingbourne, taking in breathtaking views of the Eurolink industrial estate . In Ashford, they’re steadfastly opening the windows on the High Speed trains in desperation for air.

And I guess I can’t leave out my hometown, Faversham, as the fourth corner in the urban rectangle that surrounds this field. In Faversham, they’re shoo’ing off the seagulls from swooping down to steal rashers of bacon off any more plates (as I’d witnessed earlier that day. And yes I laughed, because it didn’t happen to me, and I’m mean).

Back to the valley, and I just can’t fathom how a patch of land as magical as this exists and can feel so far away from the above, despite being so close.

I think about my love for Kent, and how it grows every day… or at least when I’m out discovering new parts of it. Watford was a great place to grow up, but its presence on my birth certificate is a bit like a dodgy tattoo that you try and cover with your fingers when anyone asks to see it. Kent feels more like home to me.

I walk into some dense woodland where I see a group of silhouettes in the distance. Sheep and goats, all gathered underneath the trees to escape the heat. They look at me suspiciously as I approach, and then start noisily BAA-ing to one another.

They’re probably insulting me too.

I walk in the other direction and see one standing completely alone.

“Were they rude to you, as well?” I’m tempted to ask, until he starts baa-ing at me too. I point in the direction of his friends in case he’s a bit lost but he’s reluctant to move.

Probably wants some space from them all.

I enjoy my explore, even if I have now been insulted by two different species and shredded my legs on a number of stinging nettles. It’s peaceful, and the surroundings are authentic. Authenticity is one of my favourite qualities, in anything – people, music, food – and it’s especially present in nature.

Magic happens when you just let something be its true self. To grow in the way it’s meant to. Stifle that for any reason, and you’re just left with something very underwhelming.

These trees have grown in the way they’re meant to, knobbly trunks and all. Those thistles didn’t grow with the help of a watering can, but with rain and sunlight. They haven’t been trimmed back. In nature, everything is as it intended to be.

I spend the rest of the evening writing away apart from having a small break to take an outdoor bath, an experience I recommend everyone do. I see a few planes overhead. One of them is flying from London to Tokyo, and I imagine all the passengers up there, 300 snippets of chitter chatter, and all the cutlery clitter-clatter.

But it doesn’t drown out the volume of the birds, as they flap against the bell tent and continue to insult me, a temporary guest in their home. I see a mouse run out from underneath the washroom, take one look at me, and scuttle away. Bit like some of those Tinder dates.

My heart smiles.

No, you’re never really alone in the woods. Try it.

LESSONS FROM A DODGY ELECTRICIAN

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My electrics blew out the other week. Completely.

The timing couldn’t have been worse, it was a busy Monday morning between important meetings and not only could I not get back online to attend said meetings, but nor could I boil the kettle to make myself a coffee with which to mentally deal with this drama.

Preliminary scoping of the problem suggested that only an emergency electrician could help me out here, so I got onto Google, did a few searches, deployed what I thought was a decent enough amount of due diligence and contacted the first one on my admittedly rushed list of contender soon-to-be superheroes.

He arrived 45 minutes later than promised and diagnosed the problem within seconds of pointing a technical looking thingy at my fuse box:

“Well, I’ve taken a look, and it looks quite a simple fix…”

My heart rose.

“…But it’ll basically cost you your left lung and a million pounds. So if you’re happy to just agree to all that right now and send over a 20% deposit along with all your remaining bags of Wotsits, I can get you back online within minutes, Ms Damselindistress”.

My heart sank.

I needed time to think.

So I thought about it.

And I thought that if that’s what it needed, if that was the only thing that would help me to carry on doing my essential tasks, then that’s what I’d just have to do, and worry about the cost later. I started to think about all the things I could sell to help fund this.

But then I observed a funny feeling inside, and considered the idea that this was all a bit quick and that this man might be a bit of a con artist.

And that he needed to leave immediately.

I channelled my inner Peggy Mitchell from Eastenders:

“GET OUT MA FLAT!”

Now clearly, it didn’t happen that way (although in hindsight I wish it had, as that would have been far more entertaining). In reality, it consisted of a sheepish call to my Dad for a second opinion and then politely, but also very socially awkwardly, asking the man to leave so that I could “process this”, and apologising for calling him out to effectively do nothing. So British of me.

“That’s fair enough, Mrs Kemzel. But everyone else is going to tell you the same thing. And they will charge you much more than we do.”

He left and – long story short – a more reputable electrician came a few days later and pretty much resolved the matter within minutes for a fraction of the initial quote. One 32nd of it, to be exact (I calculated it!). I then realised for certain, that I had been duped by the original guy. He had realised my knowledge of electrics barely extended beyond “switch it off and on again”, and tried to take advantage of that, to my – literal – expense. He created a problem that didn’t exist and threw jargon at me that he knew I wouldn’t understand enough to question, and I almost fell for it.

So what’s the point of this admittedly pretty boring story? Well, for one thing, it’s a lesson in realising that just because somebody might appear to be wearing the right badges and holding the right equipment, it doesn’t always make them trustworthy, or even right. It’s both hard and depressing to accept that there might be people out there with intentions that profit from the naivety of others, but it happens more often than we realise, and can have devastating, life-long impacts on vulnerable people.

I also thought more about our reliance on electricity and digital connection. There was a point during this encounter when I had my banking app open ready to depart with a considerable sum of money, not because I wanted to, but because I felt I needed to. And that’s a feeling that pretty much summarises most of our financial outgoings – bills, MOTs, boiler services, groceries (and I’m not talking about the fun stuff there, but the blendinthebackground omnipresents like celery and stock cubes) – all really boring stuff that doesn’t exactly excite us but is stuff we feel we need to pay out for because if we didn’t life would be a lot harder and we wouldn’t function.

Most of us sacrifice a lot of the stuff we want in order to pay for what we need. It’s a very lucky minority who don’t need to do that.

But I’d also argue that sometimes, we do actually need some of the things we want. We might be able to function without treating ourselves, but this life is too short and challenging to persistently do that without reprieve.

Being content and enjoying the limited time we have is also a need. Probably – definitely – the most important one of all, but when it comes to using money to buy things that can help us do this, it’s often the one we prioritise least, because we don’t get sent intimidating letters and our homes won’t fall down if we don’t do it.

I’m obviously not recommending that we all start spending our money irresponsibly, as that just makes things trickier in the long run, but I do think that sometimes we need to be as quick to consider handing over our cash for things that simply bring joy as we do for the more boring things that just support basic functionality.

Both because we want to, and because actually, sometimes we need to.

And if you still can’t convince yourself that it’s perfectly okay to treat yourself once in a while despite these tough economic times, then just pretend there’s a dodgy electrician in your home telling you that you should, and that if you don’t do it, your heart won’t function.

Photo by Malte Luk on Pexels.com

WANDERING. WONDERING. WHEREVER.

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I could try, but I’m not sure I’d ever be able to put it more clearly and succinctly than Jessica Vincent in the opener to ‘The Best British Travel Writing of the 21st Century’:

“The essence of travel isn’t to move, it‘s to feel”

In my younger years, I had a very – in hindsight – generic and somewhat quite privileged view of travel. Get away from Watford! Go as far as you can go! See as much as you can see! Base the bucket list on a collection of landmarks so often read about – Niagara Falls, Angkor Wat et al – all out there to tick off like some kind of checklist from the Dorling Kindersley atlas that had fascinated me as a young child.

Yet, looking back, it was never the famous landmarks or the ‘ticking things off’ that made the biggest impressions during the more intrepid trips of my younger years. More often than not, they were impersonal experiences featuring crowds, tacky souvenirs, and overpriced ice-creams. It took me a long time to understand why these outings – though lovely and memorable in their own way – had seemed a bit underwhelming. I realised that the curated nature of these experiences – all designed to draw in and satisfy baying tourists – had led to an absence of feeling. I saw, but I didn’t really feel, to be honest, as it seemed like all the true facets of the culture I was visiting had been cloaked by consumerism. And for something to make a lasting impression, whatever it is, you need it to be authentic. That’s why nature never fails:

Over time, I’ve realised that distance – and even place – won’t necessarily determine how much of an impact a trip will have.  The only reason we think they do is because invariably when we head further away than what we’re used to, we are more likely to see many landscapes and cultures for the first time, and this evokes the same level of intrigue as when we ever experienced anything else for the first time, home or away. Consider how excitable infants get over the smallest and most mundane things when they first see them – a curtain to hide behind, the way toilet paper unwinds if you roll it along a floor, a lifelike image moving on a flat screen. We get older and these things become less exciting, and it becomes harder to find anything new in the day to day, so instead we might turn to maps and identify all the places we haven’t seen yet.

And to some degree that works, but when it comes to it, it’s never really the places that matter but the special moments they’ve conjured, as those are when you really feel things. Away from home, these moments may look like inspiring conversations with people you’ll probably never see again, the scents of local spices, getting lost at night and managing to navigate your way back to an air bnb with an awkward lock, or the heartbreaking sight of a young mother placing her wailing toddler into the doorway of a bus that sits stationery in the traffic which chokes an Asian capital. She rhythmically shakes a plastic bottle filled with uncooked rice to make her little girl ‘dance’ – although it’s really a tearful stomp – in exchange for cash from commuters who pretend not to notice that either of them are crying.

These moments affect us because they stretch our senses to places they’ve never been, and see things in a way we’ve never seen. These moments are – as Vincent describes – ‘the essence of travel’, when it’s not just our feet that our moving but most crucially our minds, too.

And when you put it this way, it’s not wrong to think that ‘traveling’ should be about going somewhere far away, but it’s also not wrong to think that you can experience it much closer to home, too. Even from your lounge. An open mind and a few dashes of curiosity is all it takes. A willingness to let those same senses be stretched, even if it’s uncomfortable at times.

To open the eyes to their fullest. To welcome in sights and sounds that may forever change the way you think. To never say never, and to keep wanting to see more in order to open up these opportunities.

Because, like Vincent says, if travel isn’t about movement but about feeling, then let’s go and feel it all, now, wherever we are.

Song of the Day: Hey Marseilles – Rio

I think this is a really beautiful song and probably one of my all time favourites. I first came across it many years ago and loved what I interpreted it to mean. Older now, I interpret the meaning in a different way – which closely aligns with the content of this month’s post – and love it even more.

WHO’S A FAN-UARY?

| sophiekemsley

This is such a January image. And not just because it was taken in… January.

People seem to hate on this month a lot – a bit like how they hate on Wetherspoons and pigeons (see previous posts) – prematurely and unreasonably sometimes.

And yes, there’s a few things we can rightfully accuse January of doing wrong. Making us feel poor – yes. Being freezing – yes. Having to listen to people who chose to do Dry January moan about it for a month – yeees!

But put these things to one side and I think there’s a lot of nice things about January too.

Winter sun – like what appears at the top of the photo above – might just be my favourite of those things, because I think – like a lot of things – it shines brighter when it’s unexpected. During Summer we’ll moan if it’s too hot – or not warm enough – whereas in January we’re just grateful to see it at all. A welcome break from the grey, and a sign of longer days to come.

And then there’s the frost. Sure, it might be cold to the touch – a bit slippery even – but I love how it makes the fields sparkle in the mornings as they reflect the light from the sky. Maybe we didn’t get the white Christmas we wanted, but maybe we’ll get the white January we need instead. It might not be snow, but they look pretty similar. This iced hill in Kent was the nearest I’d get to mountains this winter, but it helped!

It also feels like a month where you can feel permitted to nest more. To focus on trying to keep warm and save money. To read inspiring books and make soup. Lots of soup. (How do you know you’re pushing 40? Well, you and your friends get massively excited about making different soup combinations, and a growing proportion of your phone gallery looks like bowls of steaming goodness served with bread.)

January is a month of two sides, and one of those is so wonderful it makes the other one worth enduring.

I’m a fan-uary. Are you?

WHY I’D RATHER BE IN WETHERSPOONS

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If I could go back in time and tell myself that there’d come a day when one of my favourite ways to spend a Saturday morning is in Wetherspoons, there’d be two kinds of response, dependent on how far back we’d gone:

18-23 year old me: “Ahh wicked, pitcher of Blue Lagoon and some Apple Sourz to welcome the weekend innit!”

23- sometime in the mid-30’s year old me: “Well, that’s just depressing. What a waste of a Saturday.”

I’d assume I had turned into one of those people I pass spilling out of the local establishments having a pint at 9.30am and regretting my life choices. Yes, that would feel depressing if it were so. That’s still not a point I’d ever like to reach.

But that’s not the reality.

I very rarely drink alcohol in Wetherspoons, but I’m here a lot. Usually with a £1.56 refillable coffee and a notebook, and on the really special occasions if I want to treat myself: a bowl of nachos, made to a recipe that hasn’t changed in at least 20 years.

A thoughtful gift from a friend

To me, Wetherspoons is about so much more than the historic connotations with cheap drinks and sticky tables. It’s a cornerstone of the community, a national institution, a place where people from all walks of life can feel that a decent meal out is a bit more within reach than a lot of other places.

Wetherspoons is a place for everyone… except the more snooty among society perhaps. And who wants to be around people like that anyway?

It’s a place that leaves you to it. A place that doesn’t pressure you to leave as soon as you’ve finished your drink so that a new customer can occupy your seat. A place where even the backs of toilet doors will encourage you to stay for as long as you like – undisturbed – if it helps you to feel safe. And often, when I look around, I sense that a lot of the clientele come here for that quality. Like the octogenarian – we’ll just refer to him as ‘G’ – who frequents my local branch for lunch every couple of days and explains how for him, it’s a place where he can come and feel in good company compared to the loneliness he feels at home.

“It helps me feel connected here” G once shared with me, “I love to see familiar faces… there are so many people my age who come here and have so many great stories to tell about their lives. You’d never know just from looking at them just how many remarkable things they’ve done. I’ve found out all about them just by chatting here.”

G tells me his own life stories as we sit and chat. We’ve spoken a few times because our favourite tables are next to each other (by the windows, to enable the act of people watching outside). Although 80% of the dialogue is from G’s side of the script, I find him a joy to listen to, and he always thanks me for the chat as he leaves, even though I’m not really sure I’ve said that much.

A recent study found that around 30% of UK residents experience regular feelings of loneliness. Whilst Wetherspoons may not be the solution for all, it’s important to acknowledge this value when critiquing the place. As somebody who lives alone in a quiet estate and predominantly works from home, I find that an evening coffee trip (decaf by that time) to ‘Spoons is an important injection of life, people and reality after a virtual day, and can understand why many feel similar.

The chain has a lot of critics, for various reasons. One of the more common concerns is that through its cheaper prices, it takes valuable custom away from the traditional, independent British pub. This is a particularly valid concern at a time when the hospitality industry is under enormous pressure – not least from recent rises in alcohol duty – and many of our beloved ‘locals’ are pulling their final pints left, right and centre. 

However, what many often forget is that the two places are very different. The top two selling drinks at Wetherspoons aren’t even alcoholic. They’re Pepsi Max and coffee/tea. More to the point, it’s entirely possible to both support your local pub with your custom, and appreciate your local Wetherspoons. I’d usually pick my cosy local if it was something alcoholic I was after or if I was meeting a friend, but I’m not sure my local would necessarily appreciate a whole table being taken up for a couple of hours by someone who’s just after a coffee, and that’s fair enough. You can make the most of both, it doesn’t have to be a case of either or.

The food is another characteristic that often attracts criticism, whether it’s the fact that the chip count can vary (as attested by the 250k strong membership of a particular Facebook group where members share / compare / condemn counts) or that it all tastes like it’s been “made in a microwave.”

Well, so what? I mean really, so what! Quite frankly, if it’s produced in a hygienic environment, is hot, tasty and edible, then I couldn’t care less if it was prepared by a teenager monitoring a microwave or Nigella Lawson poring over her aga oven. At least you always know, no matter what branch you’re in, what you’re going to get. Wetherspoons is a complete opposite of Forrest Gump’s infamous box of chocolates, (unless you’re focusing on the chip count). There may be better quality meals available elsewhere, but the reality is that they’re a lot more expensive, and most people can’t afford this as regularly. Sometimes you just want to have a break from cooking without breaking the bank. Sometimes you just want cheap stodge.

And where do we start with the iconic buildings themselves, and their carpets? It’s a little known – but absolutely incredible no less – fact that each of the 850 Wetherspoons establishments in the UK has its own unique carpet, designed around something to do with local culture, history or heritage. Take a look the next time you go into your local ‘Spoons. I am in awe of the likes of Kit Caless, who visited hundreds, set up a website and even released a book to document them. A book I proudly own and which has taught me a lot about notable figures and history from other areas:

The book really exists, and it’s amazing

As for the buildings, you’ll often find that those now hosting the chain once served a purpose as something entirely different, and the history is usually palpable upon entry. One of my favourite Wetherspoons buildings is The Palladium in Llandudno, Wales, not least because it means I must be near Snowdonia, but just because of the general feel of the building. Before it became what it is today, it was a 1920s theatre, and as you gaze at the various boxes and balconies around you, you can almost hear the echoes of decades of historic performance. You order your scampi, chips and mushy peas thinking about how the people a few decades in front of you in the queue were ordering their ‘ices’ at the interval, and not only does it feel exciting, but it also feels like a sentimental connection to the local past.

The Opera House in Tunbridge Wells has a similar history, and the reverberations of a former art deco cinema are felt immediately as you enter The Peter Cushing in Whitstable (a branch which recently won platinum prize in the UK’s Loo of the Year awards, in what I’m certain was a ‘sparkling’ ceremony). I’m not entirely sure what my local branch, The Leading Light in Faversham, used to be, but I believe it was a carpet store, which is a little less exciting than those above perhaps, but also quite fitting when you consider the pursuits and passions of Kit Caless and Co.

Should this have piqued your interest in your own local branches, then it’s worth checking out the Wetherspoons website, which contains a lot of contextual information about each branch, including explanations for the name.

Additionally, it’s a firm belief of mine that there’s a Wetherspoons for every occasion, but to take inspiration from the menu and add some variety to this post I’ll represent this as an amateur poem as opposed to a paragraph – a small plate compared to a main – if you will:

Turning 18 with a pitcher of Purple Rain.
A bowl of nachos before catching the train.
A pre-holiday pint before boarding the plane.
A cheap breakfast whilst taking shelter from the rain.
Buying a cup of coffee, and filling it again and again…

There’s just one more characteristic about Wetherspoons I wish to praise, out of a raft of many more which I could possibly feature, and for this I’ll tell a true story:

It’s February 2020. Storm Ciara has swept up the UK and caused carnage everywhere, not least cancelling all the trains to London from Lancaster, where a friend and I have been visiting our former University haunts. We’re cold and miserable about it and have had to book an extra night’s accommodation and buy emergency underwear in Primark, as well as inform our respective works that we won’t be able to come in on Monday. Once we have accepted this fate we head to The Sir Richard Owen, which just so happens to be next to our hotel. In the spirit of student memories we order a Smirnoff Ice each and my friend tells me about a trend whereby people post their Wetherspoons table numbers on Twitter and people order food for them via the app. I struggle to believe this is true, and so she offers to try it.

Within minutes of her posting on Twitter, a side of baked beans arrives unaccompanied by anything else, sent by a mystery donor. We laugh. A lot. And then try and work out the best way to distribute them. British tapas.

It’s utterly bizarre, utterly hilarious and also utterly Wetherspoons. Which is a way in which I’d also describe the pandemonium of Summer 2024 when a bird flew into the Faversham branch and mesmerised an audience of a couple of hundred customers, who all got on board with the rescue attempt of encouraging it to fly safely back out, which it eventually did.

And really, there’s so much more I could possibly say, but I’m making myself hungry, so instead I’ll shawarmachickenwrap up this post to include a soft drink. £5.70 each. Ordered via the app.

Never, ever change, ‘Spoons.

A SMIDGEN OF APPRECIATION

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Last week, as 40 mph winds swept up the country and kept swathes of people indoors, I passed a massive flock of pigeons just sat chilling in the park, chattering away to one another whilst some of them waddled around. They seemed to be appreciating the lower numbers of humans hanging about, and had pretty much commandeered the whole place to themselves. In the context of wider chaos caused by the weather, it made me smile.

I often feel a bit sorry for pigeons. I think they get quite a hard time, through no fault of their own. That’s not to say I’m about to go picking one up for a cuddle anytime soon, but I’m more than happy to co-exist on this land with them, and don’t find them as irritating as a lot of other people do. They’re just living beings at the end of the day, and aren’t we all capable of being a bit of a nuisance at times?

Last Summer I came across a pigeon that had been badly injured and was limping around in circles on a footpath, looking really pained. It was impossible to just walk by, and I spent thirty minutes phoning around local organisations for advice, trying to reassure old pidge that help would be coming and he’d be flapping those wings again soon. Nobody was really interested, and though I can absolutely understand the concerns around the potential to carry disease, it did break my heart a little that I ended up having to walk away from something experiencing clear distress. I’ll never know what happened to my little pigeon pal, but I can pretty much guess.

So call me silly, call me soppy, call me a 39 year old woman who likes cats (which I appreciate is slightly ironic), but now, every time I see pigeons who are bumbling about aimlessly – but healthily – my heart smiles a bit. Just let them be.

Plus, with all those jazzy greens and pinks on their necks, I think they have a pretty funky fashion sense too.