It’s the Small Things

It’s good to celebrate the big life wins, and shout about them on social media. Yet, it’s the the small, often unnoticed moments that I think should be cherished the most.

I found a clipping of an old magazine article the other day, hastily ripped out and pressed into a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird for reviewing later, and then sadly forgotten.

It was one of Robert Crampton’s Beta Male columns from The Times Magazine, a brilliant piece on the simple things in life that Robert takes great pleasure from. My interpretation of it was that, as you get older, it is the little things that really matter and ultimately make you happy.

Inspired by Robert here is my list, in no apparent order. By no means exhaustive, it is a good start.

Claiming a seat on the tube on a journey that lasts longer than five minutes and getting lost in the pages of a really great book. Drinking deep, dark rum in an old atmospheric pub. Pouring all the words that swarm around in my head into an article and having at least one other person liking it aside from my loyal Mum. Laughing with friends so hard that you get a pain in your stomach and you say through tears 'stop, please, no more' even though you do not really want to stop, ever.

Nabbing an ES Magazine early, on a Thursday, and reading it all the way home or, even better, on Saturday morning in bed. Running outside with the wind in my face, music in my ears and feeling as free as a bird (and flipping the bird at men who think it is hilarious to honk their horns at women exercising). Pretty much anything by Jack Johnson, despite people saying his music is blithe but dull, especially the line in Flake that says I know she loves the sunrise. No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes which reminds me of endless journeys across New Zealand and listening to Jack while cramming pages of travel diaries with adventures. Big glossy, hot-off-the-press fashion magazines with style and substance that take hours to pour over.

Roasted root vegetables with olive oil and rock salt. Face painting at festivals. The smell of paint and just-lit matches. Random conversations with strangers on the tube that make you think that maybe it’s because you’re a Londoner that you love London Town, like the one I had with a lady on the Victoria Line recently after we both witnessed a grown man openly picking his nose and examining his findings. 'I see men do it all the time, the worst are the wipers' she said with eyes rolled to heaven as we chatted all the way up the escalators and out the station and said goodbye and I got a really nice warm feeling inside and wondered, why can’t we all just get along?

Being by the British seaside. The first and last page of a new book and that incredible, evocative scent. People watching around Redchurch Street, London E2 - shorts, a My Little Pony jumper, brogues and a bow tie? Why ever not. Being with my family always - there is nothing in the world like it. Having Sunday lunch and wine at my parents’ house before retiring to the lounge to shout track requests at Alexa and have a little dance with my son and nephews .

Football, every day; on the TV, coming out of the radio and in my newspaper. Football chants such as 'is there a fire drill, is there a fire drill...' directed at opposing fans who sneak out early when they find themselves a few goals down. Rhubarb and Custard, in real life and boiled sweet form.

Staring at Van Gogh’s The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum, absorbed in the inky, starry background and dreaming of drinking red wine in Arles. Getting uninterrupted sleep and exclaiming 'over eight hours sleep...yes!' in a I'm-really-in-my-40s-now manner. Gravelly, hearty London accents. Walking for hours. The coast and the countryside. Friday post-work drinks - alcohol before 6.00 pm, a fusion of departments and when 'I'm just having one' turns into eight. Saturday morning, Saturday lunchtime, Saturday night.

Choreographed dance routines in music videos - dramatic hand and head movements, fancy footwork and generally showing off alongside a pulsating beat. Going out for dinner - either posh restaurant or the Turkish restaurant in Walthamstow whose name I will not reveal so you won't pinch my table.

Receiving handwritten letters, cards, and invitations through the post which you can keep in a big trunk of stuff rather than forward, reply or delete. Getting all dressed up. Tea brewed in a tea pot, poured into a proper big mug. Being cocooned safely in my parent's house and constantly fed and watered (wined). The cab drivers from Central Cabs in Walthamstow who always wait until you are safely inside. Making a list just to take pleasure from crossing things off it. Comedy tube drivers that announce stations in a song-song way, or wish you a really, really good day and deserve a medal for services to disgruntled commuters who have lost the will to continue onto Finsbury Park. Saying thank you, and getting a heartfelt 'you're welcome' back.

Teenagers giving up their seats for older people. 2-4-1 face wipes and £5 off Boots No 7 vouchers, providing an opportunity to buy superfluous mascara or an unnecessary eyeshadow. Coconut, vanilla and cocoa butter scented body lotion. Essentially smelling like a cake, but a happy cake.

An open weekend with no plans. Poached, runny eggs and avocado with crystals of rock salt all heaped onto a hunk of crusty warm granary bread. Watching the last two Sex and the City episodes, An American Girl in Paris (partes un et deux) with that beautiful dusty grey Versace Couture dress, the I am someone who is looking for love. Real Love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live without-each-other love' line and the Carrie/Big trip in the hotel corridor.

Lunchtime drinking. Green and yellow fields flashing past from a train window. Holidays and weekends away, particularly Day Two when you’re finally detached from your gadgets, Art postcards. Free entry at Museums. Too many rings worn on your fingers at the same time. Swearing. Cider, just one pint for me please oh go on then, two but that is it. Reading on the sofa, wrapped up in a warm blanket. Silence. Very loud music (especially when it is your own and you have chosen it).

A clean-pyjamas-clean-sheet combo on a Sunday night. A big, enveloping hug that lasts for ages especially if the person is someone you love and smells really nice. Being with a bunch of friends and looking around thinking, bloody hell these people are amazing.

My husband and son, always.