ENTRY FORTY THREE - INDIAN SUMMER

After a cold and sodden August late September brought a much needed Indian summer. Mother Nature seized her moment, producing a second crop of blackberries and a triumphant blaze of late summer flowers. For a golden fortnight the primary colours of summer and autumn combine, scarlet berries jostling with yellow sunflowers, while lawns glisten thick with emerald blades, the smell of cut grass mingling with woodsmoke to create a juxtaposition of spring/summer/autumn. Ruby leaves shine beacon-bright on oak trees and horse chestnuts have slipped on their russet and gold cloaks, children have returned to school, but Felix and I bask in our extended summer. Almost too late we have found the rose garden at Hampton Court, a walled heaven of scented blooms carpeted with velveteen dropped petals like confetti. Felix races about sticking his nose deep in the flowers like a hummingbird collecting pollen, and the air is thick with the sweet, exotic smell of a hundred varieties. Rosa Dancing Doll, Nostalgia, Red Radiance; every name suffused with romance and promise.

It is true that I may be seeing the world through rose tinted glasses, for the past month has been studded with wonders almost too many to name. After thirteen happy and fruitful years my beloved and I finally tied the knot. We

walked down the hallowed steps of Chelsea Old Town Hall amidst cheers and fluttering confetti, the smiling passengers of a passing double decker adding a surreal twist. Defying convention as ever, a fortnight later I flew to Ibiza to celebrate my belated hen do. Nestled amongst the booming clubs and raging hedonism we basked in the September rays, laughter flowing as readily as the mojitos. There is a type of hysteria only achievable when a gaggle of women get together, prompting imbecilic antics that would shame a teenager. Five days of shameless indulgence culminated in an unforgettable sunset at the aptly named Sunset Ashram, a kind of hippy beach club that draws a blissed out crowd to celebrate the setting sun with pagan enthusiasm.

After such extravagance it was time to drop back to earth just in time to celebrate Felix’s second birthday. Well, almost in time, for in the pursuit of total honesty I have to confess that in the whirlwind of planning and booking that ensues when six busy women try to coordinate diaries, the date of my boy’s birthday was forgotten. As our departure finally approached there was a flurry of emails and whatsapps, when suddenly in a moment of cold horror I

realised my error. Return date, 22^nd September, the very day Felix was to turn two. I spent the day in a fug of panic. What to do? Would I come back early?! Not likely, flights having been booked in advance it would be costly and I was loath to cut off my final day. In the end I confessed, hoping for clemency, and after much soul searching decided to return as planned. It was the first and only time I could get away with such a shocking display of bad mothering, and I was lucky that his nana and auntie arrived with gifts and party food aplenty, spoiling him rotten on the actual day. Whilst I lay on a secluded beach in an incy wincy pink bikini, savouring the sun and my final hours of selfish freedom, Felix ate a dinner composed mainly of sweets and ice cream. Arriving home late that night, exhausted and grainy with unwashed sand, I crept into his bedroom. A shock of blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, one arm protruding from the covers like an antennae, his sweet face even more angelic in sleep. I stroked his plump and velvety cheek and tucked the covers more tightly around him, then fell into bed for a few precious hours, knowing I had both had my cake and eaten it.