I’d like to make an apology
To myself, that is, because I've been telling a story that just isn't true. And I wonder if you might like to apologise to yourself about a few things, too.
In late July, when schools in London broke up for the summer holidays, we packed the car with a couple of suitcases and headed to Somerset, where we were living until earlier this year and where our home is until the sale completes, in a month or two.
We had planned a summer of reconnecting. My husband spent seven months living in Somerset in the week, finishing the renovation on our house, while I was living with my parents and the kids in London. We’d see him for weekends.
Now, we’d all be together. We were excited; it was so needed.
Weekdays began to blur into weekends; day into night. We spent mornings drinking coffee and talking while the kids ran around, shouting (loudly, happily). And evenings in the garden, or the park behind our house, enjoying being outdoors.
A vague plan we’d had to book a last-minute trip to Italy flew out the window. I’d replaced two of our passports so that we could go away but everything was so expensive. We decided to prioritise being together, over going abroad.
The way we work, both being self-employed, is that we can take time off whenever we like, and we don’t have to check in with anyone else. We love the freedom this brings but the other side of it is that we don’t earn if we’re not working.
So, we decided that rather than splash out on a trip to Italy, we’d take longer off work and stay local. Our holiday was a three-night trip to an off-grid cottage in Dorset, an hour and a half away, and it was idyllic in its simplicity.
But it was in that piece I wrote, about our mini break, that I told a lie about myself.
