every fantasy I had as a child of living in a Wendy house, except it is more tastefully decorated with Farrow & Ball grey wooden stairs, white beams and a large wrought-iron bed, which I can sit in drinking tea looking out to St Clement’s Island.My friend L’s daughter is delighted by it.
She finds excuses to skip over, bringing me messages from L and delivering ‘essentials’: fairy lights and a mug she won at St Ives’ arcade.
She sits by the window chatting, drinking sparkling elderflower cordial.Village life is poles apart from the remote country life I had planned when I left London.
Still, I like the warm rhythm of it, nodding to people I know in the post office, seeing H out walking her dog, dropping by L’s, leaving little gifts – some.
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