Last week I wrote about longing for a bike ride through a park in the minutes before it closed. Last night I got one! Big skies, sun a milky orange blob behind me, drifts of lime pollen by the curb side. I’d just given my first book talk since the baby arrived and I was giddy on it, letting the peddles spin beneath my feet as I rode down the hill.

As I described in Rootbound, nearly seven years ago I turned up to Brockwell Park Community Glasshouses for my first volunteer shift. It was November, and it was drizzling, and I spent a couple of hours unearthing couch grass from a sloping plot of boggy clay. Now, there is a perennial meadow on that land and it’s this meadow that the new Brockwell Barn faces. It felt fitting to make a kind of public return here. The hall was full, the crowd generous. I signed books and spoke to people and after a day of being grizzled at and lightly vomited on by the baby I was reminded that my mind and body had other functions.

I’ve not entirely stopped working since C arrived. I’ve slowed down. I’ve said no to things, and plain ignored others. I think I am more firm in my boundaries than I was before he existed. But it’s strange to navigate this time of doing both when I feel, societally, I should be giving all of myself to him. Earlier this week a friend managed to explain it in a way I had been struggling to: that this time is rare and short and precious, and that in writing I am able to preserve it in a small way. I appreciated that. As I type this C is by my feet in his basket, gurgling, the windows he loves to stare at reflected in the deep, shining blue of his eyes.

Other good things from this week:...