You don't know what you've got...

... until it's gone. Ah, the power of hindsight. Does it always lead to regret? I hope not.

My husband and I are not living where we would like to be right now. We're waiting - for that chance, a move, a decision that works in our favour, an opportunity to grab and run away with, a new place, a new start. We've been waiting for a while. It's hard. We are impatient to live our own lives, do our own things, make our own choices, and our own mistakes.

We are living in Norfolk, in the town I grew up. It was an idyllic childhood, full of playing on the beach and in fields; long bike rides, lots of sport, camping. I would sit on the cliff top with friends, eating chocolate and gossipping until it was time to go home. No one worried about us. We would always be home.

You only notice these things when you live away, in big, bad cities around the world. But then those bustling places have also shown you theatre, music, food, the buzz and spontaneity of the city. You've learnt to be free and anonymous and go where the night takes you; you've also learnt to keep an eye out.

But wherever I've lived, I've learnt to appreciate what it gives me: The warm people of Liverpool; the sea outside my flat in Hunstanton; the natural beauty of Iguazu Falls in Brazil, the endless incredible sunsets and sunrises on the road; the ' buena onda'* in Buenos Aires; the choice in London. That's not to say that Liverpool, Hunstanton, Brazil, the road, Buenos Aires and London don't all have their disadvantages - they do - but you have to see the positive; see the adventure.

That's why over the last couple of weeks, Martín and I have been capturing moments that we know we wouldn't be able to have were it not for the fact we are currently living here. Knowing that, it's going to make hindsight all the more sweeter. Here are a few I wanted to share:

Having time to play with my camera

Taking a walk on North Norfolk's most stunning beach

Birthday parties with the dog

Late spring walks in the woods 

Old friends, same place

Bike rides along the routes of my youth

Cooking competitions

Making my parents do random things like Eater Egg Hunts

* 'Buena Onda' is a phrase in Argentina that embodies positive energy, good vibes and fun.  

Lives and lessons of others

Every week I work in an old second-hand bookshop in Kew Gardens. I love sitting in the window as the sun works its way round, writing without the distractions of email and internet and browsing and reading all the weird and wonderful books. And another great thing about it is the mix of people who pop in with their interesting stories, lives, reading preferences and questions.

Last week a lady came in and we talked for over an hour. She works locally and has known the place for years. As soon as she came in, she felt at home and sat on the floor stretching. She has multiple sclerosis. She works hard. She does a paper round at 6am seven days a week. She is a full-time carer for an ex-SAS soldier. She also delivers papers in the afternoon. She was tired, but not too tired to talk. We chatted about the Leveson Inquiry; we discussed the saga of the Chilean miners trapped in 2010. We shared stories of where we’d studied, instruments we had learnt. She told me about her bullying neighbours, about living with MS, about her experiences of doctors and nurses. I told her about my travels, about teaching, about working in the shop. We talked about people’s attitudes to health, to work, to life. I really liked her. Having MS for 12 years hadn’t stopped her. She was in pain and was the one looking after someone else. “You’ve just got to carry on, haven’t you?” she said.


A writer came in the week before, looking for books to help him with his research. He stayed for half an hour, telling me all about the two true stories he was going to combine in his own book about the Vietnam War. The more I listened to him, the more I realised how brilliant an idea he had and what a fascinating story it would make. Unassuming and modest, the man’s face didn’t agree with me when I told him I thought it would make interesting reading. “Well, I hope someone reads it,” he said.


A while ago an old man came in. It was a cold afternoon and he had been the first customer for over two hours. He browsed for a short while and then sat down on one of the chairs. I was writing my book at the time and he just sat there, waiting for a pause in the tapping of keys. It came. He then stayed for an hour and a half, telling me all about his two marriages, especially the second to a Russian woman who he was thinking of leaving. He revealed all the things she had done over the years, how she made him feel worthless, how ungrateful she was, lazy and manipulative. He hadn’t seen his grandchildren because of her. His eyes were sad; sad and tired. I listened. He looked up: “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been thinking of leaving her.” I told him that in my opinion it sounded like he would be happier that way. He stood up to leave. “Yes, but I love her,” he said.

These are a handful of characters I have met in my three months at the shop. Each one weaves a tiny square on my tapestry of life. And each one offers a life lesson, a memento to take away.

Love is enough.

Keep writing.

Don’t give up.