The Dream

Dear Reader,

I have this dream, not all that well thought-out, but a dream nonetheless.

I research coastal towns, peruse the flats and the houses and the manors - trying to find somewhere that may, one day, be affordable. I've considered caravans on my worst days, longing to be able to buy my train ticket and just leave. Pack the things that matter and know that I'll have to buy the rest. Just to taxi to the station, transfer to Kings Cross or St Pancras or Waterloo, buy my coffee, buy a book to get lost in, get on the train and just leave. A few hours of excited shock as I sit in an empty carriage, wondering if I should get off at the next stop and turn around, pretend I was working, or that I got lost, or a medical emergency dragged me out of my social circles and made me uncontactable for a day or so.

I get the window seat with a table. I bury my head in the book - something set in the late 1800s - and live that life. I need to purposefully distract my brain to allow my body to continue to be carried towards the coastline and away from everybody else, to avoid the panic and the 'what ifs' and the guilt from abandoning my post. My post being the backbone, the organiser, the empath, the therapist, the cleaner. The 'accident and emergency' friend and daughter. The sister that never loses her temper. Ever-providing girlfriend, patient and with open arms, welcoming you and your problems, fixing everything and leaving you with pocket money, a new bag, something shiny, a cupcake. I will selfishly wonder how they will cope, who they will go to, before forcing my eyes back to the pages. The train keeps moving, through fields and woods and abandoned villages. The sun shines into the window, across the pages and my right cheek. I wonder if I should have sat on the left side of the carriage to avoid burning.

By the time we pull in, it's 2-3pm. The moment I step off the train, I get a breath of that fresh air - sea air - speckled with salt and sunshine and seaside food. I climb down the steps with my suitcase and check maps to try and find the cottage I've booked. The signal is terrible, patchy and it takes time to load anything. The station is quiet, one or two people waiting for taxis, one staff member who has never left this town. I take off, boots hitting the concrete, maxi dress tugged by the wind, phone in hand. Another set of steps from the pavement abruptly stop at the sand's edge, the beach sprawling at low tide and half a mile of beige, scattered with rocks and little pools - all reflecting the sun.

I follow the coastline, the old houses, the shop...until I reach the edge of the village. I see, a mile or so away, up on the cliffs, a small brick house. My house. Inexplicably, I have the key in my pocket. The door is facing out towards the cliff edge, the sun shining on the peeling warm pinkish-red paint. Plant pots stand abandoned on either side of the entry way, and the doorknocker is black - above the two numbers that have become my home. Maybe I'll name the cottage. I turn the key, and enter a small, but cosy, open plan kitchen and living room. Everything is wooden, from the beams, to the staircase, to the window frames. The wallpaper is old, but in good condition, with coving through the middle of the walls, dividing the top into patterns of blue and green flowers and ivy, and wooden panelling along the bottom. I carry my suitcase up the sturdy wooden staircase, and I find the main bedroom. Deep windows are set facing the ocean, I open them up and let the breeze into the room. Floral sheets cover the double bed. A wash basin and tap sits in the corner. A desk is placed in font of one of the bay windows.

This is where I am when I write. Locked in this cottage, in this room, at the desk - facing the sea.