Just popping out of this raggedy bowl of earth is a tiny green shoot. It’s hard to spot but it’s there. I know because I planted it, watered it and went and poked it earlier today. Finally, it’s coming through, and its growth doesn’t seem to be dependent on the weather or the warmth. We’re on and off this month, hot, cold, rainy, dry, yet there it suddenly is, the hardy little thing; a tiny tip unfurling from the deep.
That shoot was me last year, bedded deep down waiting to re-emerge, preparing for the reinvention that follows repatriation. I waited until the time was right to pop my head above ground, making sure I felt that it was properly safe to resurface. And the wait was worth it, as by the time I unfurled the sun shone on my workplace, and on my restablished friendship arena, and on the general hustle that is and always will be My London.
With patience and strength in place, regrowth has been easy – and so has the writing. A desk, a blank page or blinking cursor, and a doggedly ticking clock on the mantelpiece are combined elements that can strike terror into the heart of a would-be blogger, but for me this is the best bit of the job: writing a fresh post, filling an empty page. I love that clean-slate bit at the start of the week, when it’s time to unclip the pen lid, unfurl the shoot, and pop something out. I just need watering now and then (with tea and wine), regular visits (from and to friends and family) and good food (take out, dine in, whatever, as long as it’s tasty). The only way is up these days, for my small green bud and me.

Tiny green shoot in big plant pot