I remember how every Sunday he would hand-wash it, soaping it down with a bucket and a giant sponge, working methodically in circles, back to front. And how, for two sisters watching this ritual that hot summer, it seemed to take an eternity. We were desperate for him to finish because, at the end, Granddad always let us hose it down. Of course it was simply an excuse for us to play with the hosepipe before they introduced the ban. You knew how to do this thing with your thumb, pressing it against the pipe to make the water spray out – you always knew how to do all the cool stuff – and I would run through it, shrieking with laughter, while Grandma would come out of the house, yelling for us to mind her windows.

‘Can you recall a time when you felt truly happy and carefree?’ It was the therapist who asked me that question. I’d gone to see her after David left, to talk about him, but the funny thing was, I ended up talking about you instead. You see, at first I assumed it must have been on a recent holiday, or celebrating my birthday or even my wedding day. After all, isn’t that supposed to be the happiest day of your life? But it was only when she really made me think about it that I realized it was none of those times. Despite the happy occasions, I didn’t feel carefree. There’s a difference.

I needed to go further back. Back to those long, hazy and bleary-hot days when we were running around in the driveway with the hosepipe, getting soaked. Back to the innocent sounds of shrieks and laughter; the sensation of ice-cold water on warm suntanned skin and the pure, unfiltered, not-a-care-in-the-world carefreeness. Back to the summer before Mum died. Before everything changed. Before two little girls grew up way too fast.

OK, that’s the church clock chiming. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’ll sign off now.

x

PS: I hope me talking about the past doesn’t upset you but you’re the only one who understands and ever will.

Father and Son

They say a year in a human’s life is equivalent to seven years in a dog’s life. Which means, according to Harry, he’s already been living with me for over a year. And in a funny kind of way it feels like that, as already I can’t imagine life without him. We’re like an old married couple. Only in this case one of us isn’t having an affair with the yoga teacher.

I’ve also discovered there’s another way to measure time: builders. Since Ben’s firm started work on the cottage I’ve learned that ‘A Builder’s Week’ is a normal person’s month, as everything takes infinitely longer than the builders say it will. Sort of like ‘A Baker’s Dozen’, only there are no free loaves; just two more weeks of waiting and an extra headache. Their ability to make time elastic is also reflected by how long they’ve been in your house, as they completely take over. It’s only been three weeks, but it already feels like a decade.