The weekly

We had our first day out. And not only did we survive, we had a fantastic time. We went to Whitstable, driven by our friends. A long leisurely lunch at the Whitsable Oyster Company with Pip sleeping in her pram and then stirring to be fed just as we were ordering our coffees. I fed her at the table which allowed me to have the first caffeinated coffee since I found out I was pregnant. And then a walk, pottering in the shops whilst the boys swam, a drink outside the Old Neptune pub and then a walk along the beach in the evening sun, a trawl round the chip shops for supper (have you ever heard of a chip shop running out of fish?) eating them snugged out of the wind in the lee of a groyne, watching the sun dip below the horizon.

And then back, to London.

Where we drove past our collective previous selves Saturday night out. I could see us, standing outside Indo in Whitechapel, trying to get a taxi; sitting outside 333 in Old Street wearing the teeniest American Apparel black dress, smoking. Of nights in Brick Lane, Spitalfields, Shoreditch, Hoxton, Old Street, Upper Street. Past offices worked, pubs we spent hours in. Of meals eaten and drinks drunk and cigarettes smoked. Of dancing, of talking, of the drunken search for late night food. Of bus stops waited in, high heels in hand. The whole of my 20s viewed from the back seat of a car, across a car seat where my sleeping daughter and my new life lay.