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  • My mother and I share an indulgence.
    Going out for breakfast.

    When I was living in Norwich, and would visit Sevenoaks on rare occasions,
    the morning of my return,
    mum and I would go for breakfast at the charming, little cafe at the top of the road.
    A final treat before departing back to my separate life.
    We would talk for hours, time would just fly by and would only be noticed once the second pots of tea were emptied.

    Since moving back to Sevenoaks, it is harder to find these moments.
    The one-off indulgence is now on the doorstep, and novelty needs to be rationed.
    We are both working women, diaries scrawled in ink
    but also because we are living in each other's pockets,
    there is little to catch up on. No new news.
    Plus my mother, bless her, has a great skill in repeating stories that have already been told,
    and this aggrevates me immensely.
    But makes me love her too as I roll my eyes on the fourth hearing of the latest anecdote.

    This morning was different though. The mother and stepdad had been away all weekend.
    I will try not to express too much how utterly refreshing it was to have some breathing space.
    A quiet house. Bliss; that's only a 5 letter expression, tiny.

    We always sit downstairs, at the same table. We know the waiters by name, they know our orders.
    We ate eggs; scrambled for mother, poached for me,
    and did exactly what we do best,
    poke fun at our family.
    We all do it. Everyone pledges that they love their family, and we do, of course we do,
    but speaking of the craziness with someone else, makes us feel sane.
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