Salty serendipitous kisses
Guess How Much I Love Writing
Yippee! Another trip to Edinburgh and a whole train journey to myself with over four hours to kill. I made plans. Oh, so many plans for how I’d squeeze out every minute of that time. Reading! Writing! Aside from the beautiful British landscape passing by out the window to my right-hand side, there are no excuses and minimal distractions.
Despite going to bed the night before feeling ready and prepared, the day did not start well. I wanted to get an Uber to King’s Cross, but on Thursday morning the rain would not relent. The journey time doubled, and it would have been triple the price. As much as I hate using public transport with a suitcase, even I could not find a way to justify it. So I trekked in the pouring rain (for about 10 minutes), hems of my jeans soaking up puddles, desperately trying to protect the hair I’d stayed up late to style. Things happen in threes, the voice inside my head says. I was on alert for the next thing to go wrong. I was cranky and running late.
A man pushed in front of me in Pret. Prick, I whispered in an exhale, while shaking my head very visibility to show I was pissed off without having to initate confrontation. I rushed from Pret to M&S to the train. It was essential I boarded with a coffee, a sandwich, and a cookie.
I had dressed for armageddon in preparation for bracing Scotland’s cold, wind, and rain. I had completely over done it. The great deshedding revealed the unfortunate extent of my sweating, induced by the panicked change of plans and wearing a coat on the tube during rush hour in June. I blotted my face with a napkin and tied up my hair letting air flow to the back of my neck. My underboob took the worst hit, taking hours to return to normal.
I ended up with a spare seat next to me the whole way. The bad luck was over! I managed to achieve most of what I set out to, and more of what I hadn’t intended to. Success.
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The bakery hauls from Lannan have become increasingly more extravagant with each trip. Morning comes and the promise of buttery, flaky pastry makes the snaking queue outside entirely worth it. Each time there is something new to try and to indulge in. A tiramisu inspired creation, carrot cake, and a cream cheese cinnamon bun were among my highlights this time.
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Our trip was built around a boat trip out to the Isle of May to catch sight of the puffins, whose pufflings were just beginning to hatch. We drove out to North Berwick with plenty of time to mosey down the High Street. In a charity shop, I found a pocket-sized version of Guess How Much I Love You, written by Sam McBratney and illustrated by Anita Jeram. A book any child born from the mid-nineties onwards would surely recognise. I got chills. Not because I was flooded with childhood memories or euphoric nostalgia. I wrote about this exact book. In a short story that I’ve been struggling to finish, my character has been carrying around a copy of the book in her handbag. When I was younger, I only had a giant version, so I’d already tried to confirm online if handbag sized versions actually existed. I found nothing definitive but assumed it would be fine to include. Rightly so. It was fifty pence and I realised I couldn’t leave the shop without it.
It was a sign, you see. A sign to keep going and to come back to the story and get it finished. Submit it to online magazines and writing competitions, like I had intended to. For a while now I’ve been dragging my feet. I’d plateaued and hit a wall. I found myself unable to finish more than one piece of writing that is oh so close to being there. It’s frustrating, but not surprising. I resist as much as I can against the idea of perfection. But asserting that something is done is something I still find hard.
The boat had individual little seats meaning much of the excursion felt like alone time which I enjoyed. I felt connected to the sea and to nature. A swelling contentment sat in my chest. The book was stashed safely in my pocket the whole time.
