Got the ‘end of summer blues’? It’s the little things that will bring you joy

The other night, after a particularly hard day, I took myself off for a solo “date” at my favourite local. Sitting in a cozy corner, nursing a Madri and waiting for my pub pizza to arrive, I found myself scrolling sappily through iPhone snapshots of my children.

“I JUST LOVE THEM SO MUCH”, I posted to my Instagram stories – overcome by the plethora of reasons to love them... because they’re hilarious; because watching them grow and learn and develop is such an outstanding privilege; because they roast me for being “old” and ask me, not entirely innocently, if “there was electricity when you were a child”.

They state their needs openly and so freely, in a way most adults could truly learn from, saying: “I need a hug” – so I know it, so I give it. I love them because of the way they think, laugh, talk, smell (and ask me nonchalantly whether there are any volcanoes nearby).

We have a round-robin call in our house: when someone shouts “I love you”, everyone else has to shout it back. It can come at any time – and it does. It’s no exaggeration to say that sometimes (often) I just feel completely in love with my kids.

A friend immediately replied to my story, saying: “LOL I love that when you’re drunk, the first thing you do is hype your children.”

I swear, I’d only had a few sips of beer when I did it, but she’s right: and there’s a good reason for reminding myself how fortunate I am, all things considered – that I have joy in my life. It’s been a particularly painful year, this year and (specifically) this summer. Not just on a personal level (heartbreak, betrayal), but on a wider scale, too: as I wrote here recently, the news cycle at the moment is peculiarly hellish for women.

We have to carry on with our daily lives – working, parenting, surviving – against a backdrop of all-too-real horror stories of rape, of murder, of domestic abuse – of heartbreak and betrayal on a global stage, with wannabe-world leaders striving to remove our bodily autonomy; with men in Afghanistan taking away our voices. For women everywhere, right now, it’s a lot.

And what do we do when life is a lot? For me, it’s very simple: I look for joy. Specifically: small joys. My kids. My friends. Laughter at work. Hot chocolate. A perfectly chilled glass of rosé. But perhaps my wildest and most primal small joy is my love affair with the forest.

During the long, bleak months of lockdown – which for me was a maelstrom of sudden marital separation, isolation, remote working and home schooling – it’s probably no real exaggeration to say that the woods saved me. That strange, frenzied period of social distancing, broken only by a daily walk (which most, if not all of us abided by) was made palatable because I had nature on my doorstep: a local lake, a family of swans and cygnets, a majestic heron surveying us all from his wooden outpost.

A simple stroll every day turned into a life-saving pilgrimage. And now that the pandemic is over, when I feel “end of summer” sadness, as I do right now, I still turn to the trees (confession: I even tell my favourite oak that I love him when I see him. Try it for yourself – you’ll feel insane, but that’s all part of it).

By extension (and I’ll keep this perfectly simple): leaves, sorry. I know. So basic. But they’re seismic in their simplicity: on a recent day off, I met a beloved friend for breakfast and we took a walk through the park with her toddler. It’s no exaggeration to say that chucking a few crisp autumn leaves in the air for her daughter to coo at (and coo she did) set me off with a smile that lasted the rest of the day, even though I was heartsore.

So, sad as we are to lose long, sunlit evenings, we have to remind ourselves that this season can be special. I just messaged a friend to ask if we are getting tickets for the local rugby club’s bonfire night, in November – when she asked why it was on my mind so early, I said it’s because I want “things to look forward to”.

And autumn has that in spades: my annual favourite event of the year (pumpkin picking); “goth Christmas” (otherwise known as Halloween); firework night; the scent of July BBQs trailing off, replaced with the smoky scent of wood fires, ash and coal. It’s my favourite. I’m booking tickets for everything and watching Beetlejuice (the original and the sequel) with my kids as soon as possible. Small joys.

Here’s what also brings me small and accessible joy: putting fresh sheets on the bed; changing my shift patterns so I can walk my son to school (and watch him ride his bike); telling everyone we’re having mandatory “duvet time” and all climbing into bed together to watch a movie. Booking myself a ticket to see an exhibition at an art gallery this weekend. Making sure I prioritise rest and sleep and reading (actually reading, not scrolling) a book. Tracing black ink against a white page with my fingers. Buying the book I’m now obsessed with for all my friends and talking about that book incessantly, to whoever will listen. Wearing perfume (and for me, this is important, for it’s one of the smallest, purest joys of all).

Important, evocative... most of my “major memories” are offset by fresh citrus or musky and mysterious leather, cardamom and pepper. I don’t remember an important event without scent – I can recall easily what I was “wearing” when I got married; when I graduated; when I had first dates.

When I worked at the BBC – in the very studio you see on the six o’clock news – I accidentally dropped (and smashed) an entire bottle of Balenciaga Paris perfume. For weeks, new Broadcasting House smelled of cedar, carnation, violet and patchouli.

I remember what was happening behind the scenes at the time that I dropped it: remember that I was out of sorts; sore and shaken by recent baby illness and strip-lit nights spent awake in the local hospital. Every time I catch a trace of Paris in the air, even now – a full 10 or so years later – I feel the same exquisite pang that I felt then, rushing to the BBC toilets to mop it up with paper towels, anxious and heart-flushed. When I felt distraught, scent saved me – at least a little. Small joys.

And perfume can pull me back to being young and awkward in an instant: the sight of an unironic bottle of Charlie Red caterpults me back to the nineties; places me in a scuffed seat on the top deck of the 179 bus next to my best friend Roz on a day-trip to Ilford Exchange, where we’d covet and coo over the monochrome sophistication of Coty’s ex’cla-ma’tion at Superdrug.

For me, now in my forties, scent – muted, soft, floral – is a small joy. Le Labo’s “city exclusives” collection only comes around for one month of the year (you can’t buy them outside of that period), but this year I’ve chosen something new: Gaiac 10, which is the signature scent of Tokyo. Before I even knew that was its origin, it reminded me of living there in the 2000s: woody, warm, unknowable. I want it to remind me now that no matter how hard things get, each season can be a time of change and of hope.

These are my small, simple joys. Tell me yours?