Last night I went to bed wondering what I’d do with a few hours to myself on this Mother’s Day weekend. In my dream, I told my own Mum that “I’d like to walk down the centre of Manhattan, turning left or right whenever I want to.”
Today, I’ll probably end up sniffing books in Waterstones, missing my babies and buying them all some new trousers.
But this idea of some “me time” involves getting in the car, car parks, carrying bags, bumping into people, trying to get to the loo, trying to find somewhere to eat, all the things I spend every day doing.
It might sound conceited, or dangerously like Charlene (“I moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo…”), but the only place I really want to go to is somewhere I rarely get to go. My own mind. Just sit there for a bit, quietly. To not speak, to not hear my own voice saying the same thing over and over and over again. To let myself wander around, without bags, without a buggy, without a million things running passed me or towards me.
So what I might do is go into the office, shut the door, put some headphones on and shut out everything and everyone but me for a couple of hours.
Anything to avoid ending up in H&M. Again.