Last weekend, I did a very grown-up thing. It’s very unlike me to do grown-up things actually. I think I’m a bit of a child-woman at heart.
On Friday, I went away to a cottage on a “mini break” with friends. Ooooooh, so grown up.
The Four Little Seymours were very stoic about Mummy abandoning them – kind of. They’re wonderful, selfless human beings, who all conceded that I was allowed such a holiday, but my departure was not without a certain amount of wistful looks, watery eyes, clinging on and wailing. (At one point, all four of them had me round the neck as I tried to drive out of the gate.)
Anyway… off I set, trying to ignore the teaching-induced throat full of knives and throbbing headache, lamenting the fact that I had left a packet of cheap but effective Lockets on the kitchen table.
Tesco Express presented itself, and when I topped up with petrol (who’d have thought it possible a fortnight ago?), I hunted the aisles in vain for more Lockets. I was shown where they’d be – but all that was left was a pack of Strepsils for £5.40!
£5.40? Daylight robbery. I stared with hunched back and dripping nose at the shelf for just long enough for a kind, compassionate staff member to ask me if everything was ok, and when I informed him I was only looking for a cheap pack of Lockets, I found myself telling him not to worry, I’d buy the Strepsils – I’d “treat myself”. Extravagant.
I arrived at our thatched retreat after everyone else, having driven round in circles for a while, wondering why “normal people” find Google Maps so bloody obliging. By the time I got out of the car, I could barely speak, and looked like I might be harbouring Covid…
(Which I wasn’t, incidentally.)
So, the plan for the weekend was thus: sewing bunting, felting stones, finishing Paris; a novel, running, photography, blogging and the obvious chatting, eating and drinking. Two and a half days without parental responsibilities seemed like a huge amount of time.
What a fool I am. Bunting? Running? Pah. All I managed to do from the list was cut up old clothes badly, abandon Paris then start another book entirely, and take a few poor quality snaps on my iPhone. But that was not all. The chatting/eating/drinking part was successful, I factored in a nostalgic trip to Monkey World, and I went swimming.
Lulworth Cove is a lovely spot for a dip. But I must admit, in October, under a pale sky with the threat of rain, it isn’t at its most appealing. My friends are hardy. They do this kind of thing – sea swimming, life saving, bog snorkelling – you know, stuff of that ilk. And so we braved it! I was the only idiot to shun a wetsuit (can’t stand the things), and after five minutes I think I was so cold that nothing really mattered any more. Bliss! Once in, it was easy and delicious, and gave my immune system a kick up the bum: it was good for me! And afterwards, as we shivered on shore, inelegantly re-dressing to an audience of Geography students on a field trip, the sun came out.
Meanwhile… back in Sussex, owing to the reaches of social media, my mother had got wind of my antics. My mum is old school – the “wet hair causes pneumonia” way of thinking. Imagine her horror when she saw a photograph of her flu-stricken daughter, naked but for a small swimsuit, about to immerse herself in the grey Dorset sea. Later that afternoon, in our cosy cottage, I read out an email from Mum: “I have just seen a picture of you courting hypothermia” she wrote. Oh, how we laughed, as I silently prayed she wouldn’t be proven right. I was still coughing…
The weekend was lovely and by Monday, my “flu” was well and truly past the worst. Cold shock treatment had worked its magic. I had discovered the joy of podcasts and re-connected with my lovely friends.
I courted hypothermia! And survived.
Yay!
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