Summer came like cinnamon, so sweet

It’s harder to write when you are happy. Writing came easily with sadness. There will be some people who don’t like this new happiness, who prefer the sadness. After all, sadness is plot. Most people probably want sadness and adversity, and then happiness, but here I am, living my happy ending and not knowing how to write about it.

Three days a week (soon to be four) we wake up together. We spend too long lounging in bed with the cat and not enough time getting ready and drinking coffee, the steam warming our cold noses as we sip. I work in the City, walk past rushing fountains every day, the spray sometimes catching my legs. I phone my mum on the walk between the train and my office and my dad on the way back in the evenings. I feel valued and proud and successful. I feel happy and like I am making a difference. I feel challenged and excited, all day.

MindReader and I often meet for lunch; kisses under umbrellas as we listen to the tap-tap of rain, work gossip told, with a half-smile, over soup, the butter sliding off the bread and forming big yellow ponds on the top of the soup.

We get the same train home together, or try to. We meet in a room at the train station which houses both “The Waiting Room” and the ladies’ toilets. We call it our Ladies’ Waiting Room. Sometimes we pretend the trains are delayed and go out for dinner, having the whole City to choose from: tapas, tappan-yaki, Vietnamese. I get too tipsy, often, and MindReader has to drive us home from the station. Other times we go to food markets, the smell of cooking onions and strong cheese hanging in the marquees. We drank mulled wine at Christmas at the German market and I spent too much on candied nuts, the honey-coloured glaze sticking to my green gloves.

When we get in the cat goes mental because he missed us. MindReader cooks. I have a bath, my hair now long and blooming out around me as I think about my happiness. We are watching House, at the moment, and we usually watch an episode, the cat snoozing between us, paddling our clothes, before we go to bed very early, while the sky outside is still bruise-blue and the neighbour’s children are still playing football on the road outside.

We go to people’s weddings. We go on holiday. We see random things; National Trust Properties, woodland walks, canal-side lunches. We go for cream teas and hill walks, visiting people. We throw the odd dinner party, me stressing over how many candles to light and praying the cat chooses to poo outside. We go on road trips, eating too many sweets on the way and running down my iPhone battery as we play anything from Jay-Z to Joy Division. We went to Devon, just. I clomped along the pavements in sky-high wedges. MindReader wore a waistcote. We got there early, found a tearoom for brunch, watched the sunset on the way home, the sky a marbled, lit-up raspberry ripple.

I am happy now. It is a flat expanse; a panorama rather than a summit. It’s nice, this happiness, but it doesn’t do much for my blog stats.

 

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14 thoughts on “Summer came like cinnamon, so sweet

  1. Well I’m happy that you’re happy. You’re first paragraph made me think that maybe you’re the Alanis Morisette of blogging (even though I think people will still read your happy posts!)

  2. Tried to comment earlier but don’t think it worked.

    I for one am happy that your happy and think your happy posts are just as good and as the sad ones. It did cross my mind though, reading the first paragraph that maybe you’re the Alanis Morisette of blogging? Seriously though, I love all the happy ending posts.

  3. I came to the blog, not with the sadness but with the random anecdotes mostly, I think. They still happen! I am glad you are happy. I also feel that way (in my different life) at the moment and it’s lovely.

  4. Agreed with @Kilburina; the anecdotes and the fine, fine writing is what got me here and the beautiful person you are keeps me. You have all the elements you need to keep going, despite the lack of melancholy in your life, which, I have to say, I’m so very happy to get to see and experience!

  5. It makes me smile so much that you have got your happy ending – when I think about everything you have been through, it just makes you even more deserving.

    But God, I totally know what you mean about people wanting to read the ‘dark’ stuff. But I guess being healthy and happy is worth more than all the stats in the world…

    You are a gifted writer, with or without the sadness – and still slightly mad, and highly amusing. What’s not to love?!

    Xx

    • Thanks! I think to be honest the higher stats were mostly made up of ill people, and I’m not very interested in having an audience of 100% ill people to be honest! I hope things start looking up for you soooooon, BG x

  6. I stumbled across your blog by accident really. I remember reading one post (this was before you got ill..the first time) and two hours later I was still reading. Your writing drew me in and hasn’t really let me go. I’ve laughed with you and I’ve cried with you. I’ve smiled and I’ve been frustrated as events in your life have reared their cruel head.
    I feel inspired by the way you write and I drink up every word. The way you and MindReader are melts my heart and I feel so lucky that I too have my own MindReader. I find myself smiling when I read your posts about him because he reminds me so much of my boy and although I haven’t been in the dark places that you speak (write) of, I have been in places where I’ve needed help, and my boy has been there. It makes me so happy that there are men like that in this world.
    I’m happy that you’re happy. You deserve it.

    • Oh my. What an absolutely lovely comment. I am so touched that you’ve been reading for so long and that you’re so invested in my life. I am glad you have found your own MindReader!! Maybe it’s a term that will catch on :) BG

    • Thank you. That’s so nice to hear. I really hope you’ll get your happy ending soon :) (I originally wrote “son” – had a kind of a different tone to it!!). BG

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