Before I go

I catch a plane tomorrow. I've been packed since yesterday. Everything's done, laundered, folded, sorted. I amaze myself. Still, I had a last afternoon in town today while Nick looked after Esme, just because I felt there must be things I ought to buy. There weren't. I got a woolly wrap for when it gets chilly. Then I wandered the West End while a zillion fucktards got in my way and walked too slowly, and a growing nameless tension curled inside me. From time to time I exhaled with feeling. I feel bad about flying so far from Esme for three days. I wondered if I were feeling worried about that, or about my plane crashing, or about Esme's plane crashing, or about reading on Friday, or about meeting my favourite writers, and then about 4.30pm my inner voice stopped going plane reading Esme Esme plane jet lag Esme and went FOR FUCK'S SAKE BUY CIGARETTES.

I bought cigarettes. I rolled one. Inhaled. Everything felt better! Then a voice said "Excuse me," and a delightfully tall and handsome gentleman asked if he could have one too. Of course! Seeing as it's you, with those legs and that tan and all.

I told him I don't smoke these days, it was just the sort of day when I needed one.

"Me too!" he said. "I don't smoke. I just suddenly need a cigarette." And we had a cigarette together, outside Covent Garden Underground, and told each other why we both needed that cigarette, and agreed both our cigarettes were actually revolting.

"Your daughter'll be fine without you," said the nice young man.

And I felt better. I walked to Leicester Square Underground and as I caught the down escalator, the guitarist busking at the bottom of the escalator began to play a beautiful instrumental rendition of 'Here Comes the Sun' by the Beatles, and I thought yes, it does. Tomorrow. And I gave him £2.

Before my plane crashes and kills me on the way to the sun tomorrow, I want to write something for em.s, a reader in Australia.

Poor em.s read my post about Blogher that bemoans how boring and tedious it is to be a parent. Em.s is 14 weeks pregnant, out of the first trimester and ready to get excited about the most wonderful journey life has to offer, and I come along and tell her it's going to be AWFUL. It isn't.

Dear Em.s,

Two nights ago, Esme slept in our bed. I woke up before she did and quietly levered myself to a sitting position, then I read a book until she woke up.

Twenty minutes later, she opened her eyes, blinked, and looked around until she saw me. As soon as she made eye contact, she burst into a wide baby-tooth smile like the sun coming out, rolled onto her front, crawled all the way up to the top of the bed and planted a kiss smack on my lips. Then she said "Ahhh," and snuggled into my side, one pink chubby arm thrown across my tummy, her mophead of dark-brown ringlets tucked under my arm. I love that little girl more than I can say.

Em.s, I have been bored for 80% of Esme's life, but I have also been bored for most of my own. Before I was bored refilling the same cup of fruit juice, I was bored working for corporate twats, bored going out with public-school tossers, bored at university, bored in nightclubs, bored on family holidays, bored at school, bored at parties, bored in traffic-jams, bored at 3AM when I couldn't get to sleep. I do miss adult conversations, but that's my own fault for shunning NCT classes 20 months ago when I should have welcomed the chance to make friends in my situation.

I love my daughter more than anyone or anything else in my life I've ever known. I don't write about the magical bits here, but I write about them privately: I keep a file of monthly essays on Esme that I've done for her whole life so far, to make up a scrapbook or album for when she's older. What I see in her eyes I can't put into words.

Because I have Esme, I can roll down grassy banks in parks without feeling silly. Because I have Esme, I can walk through London making monster noises. (One day last month I inadvertently made a monster noise at respected no-neck media personality Sandi Toksvig, and you can't put a price on that.) Because I have Esme, strangers smile and start conversations with us, strangers who would normally walk by with grumpy faces.

I can't put into words how good the good times are - I can't do them justice - and I don't feel the need to write about them here. I just enjoy them. There's only one thing I'm looking forward to more than Blogher, and that's seeing Esme safe and sound in San Francisco when she arrives with Ian on Sunday night for the start of our family holiday.

HOLIDAY! EEEEEEE!

Sorry, I keep having moments of that.

I looked up at Ian an hour ago, my brow twisted in worry like it is every time I wonder what people think, and I said "What if when I read on Friday, no one thinks it's funny?"

"Then they'll all look at you like this," said Ian, and gazed pensively at me, his head on one side, one hand stroking his beard. So I suppose that's the worst I have to worry about.

I'm going to go and tickle my daughter now.