September 1st

Notes on a good day

We saw August off with coupes of sparkling wine and crisps and dip on the coffee table.

I had a friend visiting. It wasn’t like it would have been five years ago: spirits and shots and cheesy chips under florescent lighting at 2am. We spoke about money and houseplants and life decisions. I’m not sure if I’ll ever want kids. Should she leave her job? We took our make-up off, brushed our teeth, and slipped into our own rooms just after midnight.

And when I woke up it was September. A Sunday.

There’s a rare kind of tranquillity in waking up before your houseguest; in padding around a quiet house, barefoot in the morning light. And there’s a rare kind of joy in the first few days of September. Or at least, for me there is. It’s a new start. It’s a takeaway coffee on a crisp, cold day. It’s Tom Hanks’ character in You’ve Got Mail saying, “I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address.”

I cleared dishes and wiped the kitchen down in silence. I made a big mug of tea and stood at the window peering out at grey clouds. I lit a scented candle that smells like pear and sage, or something similar. I listened to a daily news briefing, then set a playlist called Sunday Morning Mix off to play quietly while I read essays from other women in their late twenties, comforted by the knowledge that we’re all just trying to find beauty in the mundane.

Later, my guest shuffled downstairs and popped her head around the living room door, announcing ‘it smells like autumn down here’ through a barely concealed yawn. It was a compliment.

We ate breakfast at the table un-showered in old pyjamas. A full English, with more tea, and a side of toast. At one point, I reached for a second slice, then realised with a pang of guilt that she’d only had one. A moment later, I decided that that’s okay, and ate it anyway.

When the conversation settled, the tea was gone, and our plates were smeared with nothing but brown sauce and crusts, she headed back upstairs to get ready for the drive home. As I cleared dishes, a song that reminded me of an ex drifted out from the speaker, and that, too, was okay.

The rest of the day was my own. A peppermint tea. A rough outline of a short story I’m thinking about. Two hours on the sofa with a blanket watching You’ve Got Mail because it’s September and I was thinking about the pencil line. A load of washing. A phone call with my mum. Some good family news. A rain shower, watched from the kitchen window.

Later, I will watch several episodes of Gossip Girl I’ve seen at least seven times already. I will have a bath and I will put too much Radox into it on purpose because it’s better that way. I might order Wagamamas, and better yet, I might not feel guilty about it.

I will sleep in fresh sheets knowing that September 1^st was a good day — a day so far removed from the thoughts that have been tapping on my shoulder recently, that it’s almost as if they weren’t there at all.

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