I’m known by my oldest and closest friends to be very quiet in the mornings. I have a ‘quite frankly, leave me alone’ demeanour, considering the fact I’m quite ready and willing to be up any time before 9am, it’s something that has improved over the years. Even now, I rarely talk to Mr W within the first hour of waking. The people that know me understand but I often find strangers think I’m rude. I don’t mean to be. When I’m properly awake I don’t talk to strangers either. There’s a shyness there. An inability to strike a conversation out of thin air. Often, I think, why would they want to talk to me? 

A 6am walk around Thetford forest, Norfolk, a few weeks ago, saw us frozen by foot but warmed by heart. The frosty ground thawed in front of us as the sun peeked between the trees. It was a beautiful morning. Something a complete stranger took a moment to remark to us as he walked his dog. A complete stranger. 

Today, in Colombia Road, London, a queue formed for a doorway serving coffees and pastries. In my hands I held the plants and flowers my heart could not leave behind. Behind us, a small child stretched his neck out of his buggy to see the world speeding by. He became completely enthralled by my Dad chatting to Mr W. I told them both they had a spectator and the child was brought into the fold with a cacophony of hellos as I wandered away to window-shop. Coffees in hand, we made our way through the neighbourhoods and the buggy, boy and father caught up with us, my Dad continued talking to him as if they’d met before. Talking about the area, coffee and doughnuts. It didn’t delay our return to the car, but it added a touch of ‘something’ to the stroll.

Later in Greenwich Park, while Dad and his partner wandered over to the meridian line, Mr W and I looked down the hill towards the Maritime Museum, across the Thames and beyond. We took our photos, revelled in the small droplets of rain and snuck a kiss by the blossoming chestnut trees. As he returned to us, Dad called “put her down”, followed by the laughter of another two complete strangers. They had not seen us, but having been stood only metres away thought the remark was meant for them. The six of us stood for barely 2 minutes laughing over the confusion, and jokes about us “getting a room”, until we departed. A simple interaction. But an interaction with strangers nonetheless. 

It gave me a smile. Small stuff like that usually does. It got me thinking about the joys of the ‘small stuff’. 

A copper stovetop kettle sits in our loft. Intact but dusty, we outgrew using it within a year of buying our home. You see, with a stovetop kettle, water for a cuppa takes at least 15 minutes to boil. At first the novelty was the point, but as time went on and visitor numbers grew, we found that it wore a bit thin. A quick pit stop for a coffee was not the name of the game. A shiny electric kettle soon replaced ol’ copper pot and tea raced out of the kitchen. Post Haste! 

I miss that copper pot, the lack of urgency it had and the whistling calling you back. It made you grateful for the tea, the whole process relaxed and rewarding. You didn’t take it for granted and in turn it was the best cuppa! The effort made it so.

Recently I’ve noticed that life is full of these moments, drawn out and satisfying.

Using a cafetiere, rather than instant coffee. A slow Sunday walk in a flower market, 30 miles from home, rather than grabbing a bunch at the supermarket. Planting seeds to grow your own vegetables, rather than bunging it in the trolley when shopping. Cooking a chicken on the spit roast BBQ for 3 hours rather than in the oven for half that time. Tending to the coals, watching it from afar, a G&T in hand. Talking to a man, pushing his son in a buggy about coffee. A harmless and funny misunderstanding with strangers in a park. A man in the forest, walking his dog, remarking on the beautiful morning. 

He knew. He knew it was the small stuff that matters. He had to share his joy with someone. Even me, the girl with the ‘leave me alone’ face and frozen toes.