Yesterday was a pretty normal Thursday, rolling along well enough till somewhere during a quiet afternoon of edits I got an email from my friend James suggesting, seemingly out of nowhere, that we all book a weekend at a lighthouse up the coast this mid-winter. Things went from nice to amazing. This guy knows how to work a room - within minutes there were some very excited, entirely uppercase reply-all emails to the effect of 'HELL YEAH', 'OMG YES', and of course, 'YOU'RE A GENIUS'. So if anyone needs me this July, I'll be heading to Seal Rocks to watch the whales on their migration north, take long and windy walks, play Scrabble, read books, make slow roast dinners and drink quite a bit of red.
I am thinking I might have to re-read two of my favourites while I’m at it: Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse ('She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach') and Jeanette Winterson’s Lighthousekeeping (‘My mother called me Silver. I was born part precious metal, part pirate’).
* Image from Studioeighty