Sunny Days

The bright sun lights up my house. It's a "nice" house, typical northern terrace: 2 up, 2 down, done in beige and blue. Foreign sketches on the wall, herbs growing in terracotta pots on the window sill, bright coloured toys scattered on the floor.

It strikes me with sudden realisation that the sun doesn't show off my house at its best. There is no sudden transformation of the house into a bright and cheery setting; instead, it looks uncomfortable, taken by surprise, as the dust motes scurry and swirl for a place to hide.

There was a time when I lived in places where the sun was expected to shine: flashy pastel oils sparsely scattered on white plaster walls; no flowered borders nor patterned carpets in sight. Places that had beds that begged for silk sheets, not functional cotton. Places where you knew a bottle of rum was in the cupboard, and probably not much else. Places that, for a short time, I called home.

Until the sun began shining through my window, I hadn't noticed that I was bowing to cultural expectations at all, let alone ones that weren't mine. But I look around, and see no trace of Southern California anywhere. I sit in my tank top and jeans, watching my son play in his 'surfer' outfit, thinking "so totally American," and yet - where is the proof? Take away the accent, and the 'American' clothes bought at Ethel Austin, and what is left?

I live in a typically English house, attempting a typically English life.

The sun doesn't show off this life at its best, either. Pushing the buggy past a taxi rank, it occurs to me that such weather should be taken advantage of. We could get a lift to the station and go someplace exciting. Failing that, we could go someplace to enjoy the sun: Southport, Blackpool. Right now, just go.

It takes a full basket at the supermarket, all travel 'essentials', to make me realise that this is no longer the way I live my life, and that spontaneity isn't really the same anymore, under these circumstances.

I put back the ready-made formula, the bottles, the pacifier, the childrens 26 SPF sun lotion, the baby snack food, the long sleeved t-shirt to protect his arms, the mini-pack of nappies, the travel wipes, and the juice. He watches me with a bemused look, putting things on shelves. In this moment, I resent him, and all that he has changed in my life. I look away.

And then we go to the park, as a compromise, and play in the sun, rolling over and over in the grass until I forget my impetuous urge to go see something new. Because he, this little boy who knows nothing of the things I've seen and the places I've travelled, he is showing me something new every day. And if, for now, the best setting for that is a beige and blue decorated 2-up 2-down terrace, then so be it. It's just another adventure.

Epilogue