So it feels like time for reflection. As we sit at SF airport awaiting our flight to London. I am depressed enough to cry about this journey coming to an end, though John is excited about getting back to the UK and seeing how we react and feel. I’ve already decided I will feel SHIT.

I’m only looking forward to two things – seeing friends and family and having all my hair lopped off by Karine Jackson.

I have already done the list of highlights. So here’s the list of what I’ve learnt (mainly about myself – we’re not talking cultural or anthropological insights folks, I’ll leave that to Bruce Parry) in the last eight months.

1. I’m really quite lazy (physically not intellectually darling) and really quite impatient and this doesn’t look set to change.
2. The best adventures are those done with locals. Hot springs, wine tours, temple celebrations, eating in people’s homes, impromptu parties. And most importantly FREE accommodation with things like fridges stocked with wine and cake and electric blankets and car usage thrown in!
3. Always ask. Don’t be English. Be bold. Act like an American. We found so much to be had by asking. By talking to people, usually strangers but also friends of friends everywhere and asking them about themselves and their lives we got invited places and met people we’d never normally meet. This has taught me that most people want to help you if you ask and most people are really keen to show off their city/town/village. And it makes ALL the difference.
4. That the universe is amazing. It helps you out if you let it. So I have learnt to trust that everything will be well and if things go ‘wrong’ it’s usually for a reason. I now meet everyone with the thought why has the universe thrown this person in my path? What am I supposed to learn or help them with. It’s a nice way of looking at the world.
5. I always trust my instinct anyway. Ever since my mum told me some horrible story about hitchhiking in France when she was a teenager, her advice to me about listening to the voice in your head (not the one that tells you that you are fat but the one that tells you if someone’s psycho or actually quite nice or that you look slim and great today) has stuck and on this trip it has improved no end. I have conversations with that voice all the time now and it’s always telling me ‘yeah, this life rocks, keep going, all will be well. Now go buy that $30 lipstick – you need it.’

Now this was just the prologue. The next chapter begins tomorrow.

Dear Alula

Today you are four and you just told me the following things:

That you love me as many houses we have lived in (that’s such a lot isn’t it mummy?) and as big as the waves and as dark as the night when you are sleeping and how big the moon is and how hot the sun is.

I wonder whether you will be a poet or a songwriter. Although you resolutely refuse to learn your letters. BORING you say. But if you can’t write we say then how will you be able to read signs that tell you where buried treasure lies? Princesses read. It’s part of the job description we tell you.  No. Not interested you insist.

But Banana begins with B.

We don’t really care. We know you’ll do just fine.

I kiss you and tell you how much we love you and how glad I am that you’re my baby – that you chose me to be your mummy. You look confused at that.  I ask you if you’ll always be my baby, even when you are forty or eighty or a hundred. You tell me you’ll love me even when you are a billion and a hundred. And will you have stopped growing by then? Yes, I say, you’ll stop growing when you are about eighteen. And you will be taller than me and undoubtedly beautiful.

And you know, I tell you, four years ago I was lying in bed with you and cuddling you and the doctor’s first words were ‘look at those eyelashes.’ Why? you ask. Because they are long I say.

I just can’t sleep mummy. I want back strokes. Ok, I say because I do this every night. Lula bean, lula bean, I start to sing. You’re my mummy forever you finish. This to the tune of Adelweiss.

Please mummy I just need to not sleep and look at all my birthday presents. You stroke back my hair and it feels like you’re not 4. You’re much older. And you say ‘I’m sorry I was naughty today mummy. Thank you for all my birthday presents.’ And I say ‘that’s ok my darling, you’re good 99% of the time. Everyone’s a little bit naughty.’

And you kiss me and ask ‘what’s a percent?’ and I breathe in deeply and say ‘go to sleep now.’

And now you are four and a big girl and I will hold you to your promise that now you brush your own teeth and walk everywhere. No more carries. But secretly I’m hoping you break that last one a few times more.

Happy Birthday pop pop.