It’s Sunday (who am I kidding, it’s definitely Monday by the time I get round to posting this), it’s 3.21 in the afternoon and I am counting down the minutes until we can bumble on down to our local pub for a lip-smacking (potentially heart-burning) roast dinner. Seriously, go to the Sussex Yeoman and get the lamb special: A slab of lamb, a mountain of spuds and a whopping ol’ Yorkshire pud to mop it all up with, oh mama, I am salivating. Ya see, I live for moments like this. The kind of moments that when someone asks you what you did at the weekend you normally leave out because, well, who wants to know about how much gravy missed your mouth and dribbled onto ya pretty white embroidered shirt and all your chins instead? On the face of things, they seem like boring activities we reserve for small talk don’t they, but they’re often the things that fill me with a warm fuzzy happiness. And if that makes me a 26 year old granny (that sounded way less dodgy in my head), then, well, that makes me a 26 year old granny! I feel like there should be some kind of cool word hybrid for this. What shall we go for? Premature granny – pranny? That’ll do. Just don’t say it too quickly, or in a loud place because that could be an entirely different conversation you’ll be having.
I feel at this point I should try and save my rep by convincing you that I can be a wild granny rocker too ya know, christ knows my gal pals have a few stories they could tell you that’ll destroy my proud pranny image in 5 seconds flat. Salsas… that’s mostly you btw. BUT, for every story about me falling headfirst through my door into my burger and laughing like a pig-seal-human hybrid (I like that word today), there’s 146146184871 tales of me sat at home, in mismatched socks and pj bottoms up to my armpits, bumbling around potting hyacinths, framing wall art and necking maple syrup – from the (squeezy) bottle #hardcore
If I’m being totally honest, I like this side of life. No wait, I love this side of life. I like baking banana bread at the weekend, and taking my nan down to the seafront so she can witness the beautiful world that exists outside of her four walls. And I like stalking local dogs and doing all that other ‘boring’ sh*t. Like a mahoosive, body-swamping jumper (casual outfit name dropping eh!) it’s comforting and it warms the cockles of my soul – almost as much as a flat white, almost. Oh man, what I’d do for a sink full of coffee right now – I’ve given up for lent. Yeahhh, I know, I’m ridiculous. I’ll probably write about my experience at some point, if I make it…
Nothing fills me with more happiness than a clear weekend with zero plans. Because zero plans means you get to do things you actually want to do, with the people you actually want to be with, and lord only knows those 2 days are precious as F. Like go to that new coffee shop that’s just opened on Seven Dials to sample the Bakewell tart or take a mooch down to the seafront just because you fancy being a marine queen for a few hours, or watch Zootropolis for the 50th time. Or, pile into ya lounge with your best friends, order Franca Manca and talk about who poos in front of their boyfriend and who doesn’t. FYI, I don’t – but even I was surprised at that one.
I’ve been lucky enough to live by the sea for my whole life but it’s only as I’ve hit prime time prem-granny age that I’ve really started to appreciate it. Working in London has a lot to do with it I think (you can read all about the trial and tribulations of being a commuter here). It’s helped me fall in love with my home town all over again – to look at it with stranger’s eyes, as if I’m only just discovering it, just a passerby here for the ride. There’s something therapeutic about that fresh sea air hitting your lungs and whipping your hair up ya nostrils. It stops you in your tracks and makes you think, f*ck, life is SO good. London is great and everything but when it comes to fresh air, a puff of heat from a bus exhaust is your lot – meh, not sure it’s a strong contender for Brighton really.
For every story about me falling headfirst through my door into my burger and laughing like a pig-seal-human hybrid (I like that word today), there’s 146146184871 tales of me sat at home, in mismatched socks and pj bottoms up to my armpits, bumbling around potting hyacinths, framing wall art and necking maple syrup – from the (squeezy) bottle #hardcore
How lucky are we (I say we because I know there’s at least one other person that reads my sh*t – shout out to the Ginger Wiz, aka Editor and all round redhead champ) to feel so fond of a place that wherever we go in the world, we’ll always feel like we belong here; at home. And how lucky are we that it continues to humble and bewilder us however many times we’ve seen it before: a stripy pink beach hut, a cobbled street, a polystyrene tray of chips. It’s the gift that keeps on giving and a free one at that! Ok, or like £2 for some potato. Maybe Brighton’s to blame for my onset of P.G.S.
Right, over and out ‘cos I’ve had my roast by now and I feel like a two day-old Yorkshire deflating by the minute at the thought of that Monday/Tuesday drill. This granny needs a cat nap. Love you bye.
Photography by Olivia Foley
Jumper: H&M (similar here)
Trousers: Zara (now sold out waaa)
Boots: Kurt Geiger
Bag: Zara (sold out. Bigger version by New Look here)
Hair: Windswept and dirty AF