If I could sum up this past week in more than a few words, I’d say it was one in which I talked myself into exhaustion. In two languages. I know what you’re thinking; Sophi tired from too much gabbing impossible but such rarities can happen. It got to the point where the muscles in my jaw starting seizing up and my tongue felt like it had done five rounds with a sander. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a thoroughly enjoyable one but perhaps should have been paced a little better. Coffee toute seule on the terrace this morning was absolute bliss.

I suppose I should blame myself – I have a tendency to go hard or go home but the fault does lie partly with others; my mate Sara and Monsieur le Météo. After all, it was the former who said I needed to do something for myself and the latter wasn’t going to let us forget March winds until that month finally passed. And it has. The sun has got its Ray-Bans on and hip hip hooray – just in time for the long Easter weekend. Anyway, back to taking advice from my straight- talking friend ( I have many) and me time. First, a lesson from Jacqui who hosts the Friday ladies chat on how to get to grips with Mumo’s sewing machine. Who knew, I could do so many different stitch patterns in a straight line without breaking the thing? Puffed up ego sorted, I then took myself off to have my nails done and by that, I mean pamper and paint. It took a while, after all something I used to pop down to the local salon in Streatham for regularly before Covid and my big move across the water was well overdue and my cuticles, I was told, were in bad shape. And naturally, it goes without saying for anyone who has ever frequented such establishments, conversation flows non-stop – a free French facial workout added to my now very pretty nails which are now mostly hidden by Marigolds lest I put a run a drill across them. All those people with jewellery tutorials on YouTube never seem to have that problem but well, me and mechanical objects usually end up with less skin on fingers. Still, its nice to wiggle one’s digits and not grimace at the grime underneath them even if the woofers find it a little strange to be served dinner by their butler wearing bright orange gloves.

Taking a personal pause is an odd feeling. You don’t know how much you needed it until you actually do it. Driving home from the above-mentioned Friday afternoon ladies natter after spending a morning doing the same over coffee with our Welsh lass Lisa, I found myself looking out on a totally empty country road going straight ahead towards the horizon. I stopped Bluebottle (my faithful runaround) and just sat for a few minutes going nowhere; I can’t remember the last time I took my foot off the gas and just breathed. Between running Dog Hollow and all that has happened since T died, I’ve spent 30 something years on ‘lit’ mode but in that moment, I felt the switch turn off. Sounds a bit weird I know and I’m not going lulu I hope but maybe, just maybe, that engine has finally put itself in neutral (all puns towards The Book intentional) – a kind of peace if you like. Of course, the last bit of that sentence is unlikely to last long – I mean have you ever known me not to talk?…

“Sometimes you need to press pause to let everything sink in” (Sebastian Vettel)