If I was walking to the shop on my own to buy some milk, I would have also been on an automatic, robot-mode walking at an incredibly fast pace with one thought and one thought only: to purchase the milk and walk back in an equally fast pace, without a care for anything or anyone at all. Milk would have been the only care.
On the borders of Windsor Great Park, less than an hour from London, Coworth Park, a luxurious Georgian country house hotel, was the ideal base for our hiking and history mini-break. And, if we'd been in the mood for a horsey weekend, there's an equestrian centre on site where we could have arranged an escorted horseback ride or lessons. Or just up the road is the famous, 300 year-old Ascot Racecourse.
The terrifying financial burdens that come with living in London, the sense of it increasingly becoming a steel and glass playground for the super wealthy, can make us ordinary Londoners feel disenfranchised. The huge pressure to achieve and succeed, if not just survive, leaves little scope for moments of awe and genuine peace in our frantic minds.
I've decided, in the deluded spirit of making resolutions in the new year, to try and change an aspect of my lifestyle; I'm going to dip my toe in the water of an attempt to be kind to myself. My problem is I can't tell when I'm being nice to myself and when am I just being a lazy pig, so I never stop with the self-flagellation to keep going. If I thought about what's the greatest thing I could do for myself, I'd tell you it was 'to never have to get out of bed'. I'm my happiest when I have a virus and have an excuse to lie there without the nagging mother in my brain screaming, "Get your ass up and out".