What I did over half term break

It's on the train to London that I remember the ferry terminal in Harwich. It's a 6 hour journey during the day, 8 at night to the Hook of Holland and why wouldn't you, when the world is right on your doorstep, just waiting? It's one reason why I think I adore port cities. They have the best stories.

 The idea of being able to step out and feel the sea air on my face becomes a desire so intense, I almost feel it happening.  I book tickets before I've even confirmed with the co-parent he is okay with it.  

I had gone for my PCR on Thursday only to realise this morning it was an Antigen test. So we ended up back at the Corner House for a few hours, plans to go to the zoo scarpered by the need for sleep and idle time. Today, we arrived in Holland and navigated the metro and bus to our hotel. And then? A lazy day, exploring the ship.  It's weird...I normally mock cruises, but actually, it's kind of a dream. Everything has that quality right now. Dreamy and slow one minute, then accelerated at pace. 

The house  and I are at odds. Nothing really makes sense to me at the moment and I seem to have accumulated 'stuff' that I have no idea what to do with, so I've outsourced revamping the space.  New paint, a changing around of rooms, a paring down, paring back, preparing for this next broken heart because my dad won't make it past Monday night but I don't know that yet.  And I am leaving my dream job because it has become a nightmare, but I am not ready to admit that to myself yet. 

On Tuesday, we wander around the Maritime Museum. There is a conversation blacksmith working on bells for a couple of the ships.  He is handsomely capable, his English impeccable with a slight burr and I feel myself flush. If my children weren't right there, I might have hurled myself at him, asked him to wrap his arms around me. He looks as though he would smell of the sea and bergamot. I giggle to myself and he flashes a smile at me. I have many questions for him. How long has he been a blacksmith, does he take commissions, is he free for dinner? How does he take his eggs? So many questions. It is a relief to experience a rise of pure lust for someone who isn't a spectre, a con artist.  And he doesn't have a ridiculous beard. 

Later that afternoon I try to take our luggage to the Centraal Station lockers but it doesn't work as planned. So we hop on a tram, explore the city via efficient public transport. I check my email whilst the kids watch the skyline and there is a message from my aunt. And I know. Daddy's gone over.  And I know before I know that I need to come back.  

We are back at the house by 7:45, the kids vegging out in respective spaces.  I sigh, trying to decide what to pack. I've booked myself to stay in the US until the 28th, but I know that is too long, unless I am able to see e we e get a visit with my brother.  And I am due in London for a second date, and a dinner with a friend in Thursday. Panic starts to rise and I am desperate to speak to my dad.  So I do. He can answer now, in other ways. 

I steady myself, pack easily, pragmatically and take myself up to London, booking into a hotel because I need to not have to worry, fret, and I know inherently I should 't be doing anything that involves  operating machinery or automobiles. I'm half way to London when the  for the second date cancels, which rankles but is also a relief. I go to the theatre instead, taking myself to see 'Glow' at the Royal Court and I leave confused. I'm tucked into bed by 10pm  and am woken in the middle of the night by the wind. I lay in the dark, smiling to myself, drift back to sleep. 

I go down for breakfast, come back up to the room to find my dinner plans cancelled and book a massage and a facial. I decide to message a new friend and see if she is free for dinner. We have a delightful time and drink far, far too much. At the end of the evening, we hug and I kiss her mouth, standing on tiptoes. She is tall willow wisp then. I go up to my room but don't really remember falling into bed. 

Room service is supposed to arrive at 5:30am but does not. Instead, the night manager bangs on the door.  I should be hung over but am weirdly not. I fall back asleep for an hour, throwing on clothes when the car arrives. I could have taken the Tube and probably will on my way back but right now? I just need to float along with the flow. I think I may have left an array of things at the hotel. My toiletries bag, maybe the red shoes I wore to dinner. It feels comical and I try to be annoyed with myself but this is what I do when I am overwhelmed, I leave things: coffee cups with lipstick marks, umbrellas, a book, a postcard I forgot to send. It's like I can literally feel my brain short circuit and the lives I lead in a moment fall into one another, the boundary lines blurred. 

My monthly is due soon. At the airport, after yet another test, I run to the pharmacy and the man behind the counter is infuriating. 'Why do you need this,' he demands? Have you tried ibuprofen?'  'Yes, I take both,' I snap. 'That isn't what you should do.' 'Do you have a uterus?'

'No, of course not.'  'Well, then, do you really think you should be telling me what I should take to manage my cycles?' 

The conversation deteriorates and I am almost mortified at my behaviour. He's just doing his job but I am so tired of being patronised by men. I can feel a darkness swirl, I can feel malevolence bubbling in my veins and I simply stare at him. He tries another tack. I take his name and his manager's name. I seethe. He says something, trying to de-escalate. I smart back, say something about how we don't always get what we want, that I'd like to not have an aural headache and for my dad not to be dead, to be going on holiday as opposed to planning a funeral. He stops and looks at me. I look back. And we're both trying not to smile at the absurdity.  I take the medication, then move on to another till to buy  replacement earphones, only to discover mine in my bag once I board the plane.  I shake my head and start to cry.  I feel very small and ashamed but also proud that I stood up for myself.  I was both wrong and right. But I was rude. I make a note to send an apology letter.  Sweet baby seals, Rachel, I say to myself. Get your sh*t together. It isn't his fault. And no, he doesn't have a uterus. 

I settle into my seat whilst the aircraft rocks back and forth with the wrath of Eunice. She definitely has teeth, this storm. I shiver, wait for us to be airborne. I lay down and am asleep before I even know it. I wake up 4 and a half hours later feeling more human. The Spanish flight attendant comes by, ruffles my hair.  'You haven't eaten anything. I am going to bring you your lunch.'

It's ravioli, which has been my comfort food throughout COVID. I sigh, happy. Ravioli for lunch, chicken schitzle for dinner last night...I am fortunate.  One of the parcels looks like a heart.  I finish my meal then feel tears well again. I want my mommy. I want my dad. I close my eyes and remember being little, climbing into bed with both of them, feeling safe. It's enough, being able to conjure that feeling.