Towards a Fresh Start: “Mum, how long are we going to rot in this backwater? We’re not even in a proper town—we’re in the back of beyond,” my daughter groaned, returning from the café with her favourite song on her lips. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Masha: this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere.” Mum lay back on the couch, her tired legs propped on a cushion—her so-called “Churchill-relax” pose. “There you go again with the ‘roots, roots, roots’. Mum, if you stay here another ten years, you’ll have withered, and then another random, potato-loving chap you’ll want me to call Dad will come along.” Wounded, Mum got up and peered into the mirrored closet. “My roots are just fine, thank you very much…” “That’s what I’m saying—for now. But a bit longer and it’s all over—parsnip, turnip, or butternut squash—take your pick, chef’s choice.” “If you want to move so much, go ahead. You’ve been an adult for two years now—you can do anything that’s legal. Why do you need me?” “You know, for my conscience. If I run away to a better life, who’ll look after you?” “I’ve got an insurance policy, a steady salary, WiFi, and I’m sure I can find another ‘chap’—you said so yourself. It’s easy for you to pack up—you’re young, hip, understand memes, and don’t mind moody teens. Me? I’m halfway to Valhalla already.” “Oh, come on! You joke like my mates, and you’re only forty—” “Did you have to say it out loud? Just to ruin my day?” “In cat years, that’s just five,” my daughter quipped. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum. Before it’s too late—let’s just jump on a train and go. There’s nothing keeping us here.” “A month ago, I got them to finally print our surname right on the gas bill—and what about our GP registration?” Mum fired her last arguments. “We can see a doctor anywhere, and you don’t have to sell the house—you’ll always have a nest to come back to. Let’s get you out, show you what life is like!” “The sonographer did warn me you’d never let me rest. I thought he was joking—turns out he won bronze on ‘Britain’s Got Psychics’ later. Alright, let’s go—but if it doesn’t work, promise me you’ll let me come home without a meltdown.” “Scout’s honour!” “That’s what your co-parent promised in the registry office, and you two have the same blood type.” *** They skipped the county town and aimed straight for London. After cashing in three years’ savings, they splashed out on a studio flat between a market and a coach station, paying four months’ rent up front. The money ran out before they’d even unpacked. Masha was buzzing and dived headfirst into city life—artist circles, nightlife, social whirl. She fit in instantly: mixing with the locals, picking up the accent and the dress, as if she’d materialised straight from London air and pure confidence. Mum lived between doses of camomile tea in the morning and valerian at night. The job search started on day one, even though Masha coaxed her to get out and explore. London’s job ads offered salaries and expectations that didn’t quite add up. Mum did a quick calculation (no psychic required) and guessed: six months, max, then we’ll go back. She ignored her progressive daughter’s pleas and stuck with what she knew—got a job as a cook at a private school and in the evenings washed up at a local café. “Mum, you’re stuck at the stove again! You might as well not have moved. Try something new—designer, sommelier, even a brow artist. Have coffees, ride the Tube, adapt!” “I’m not ready for retraining, love. Don’t worry about me, I’ll settle. Just you focus on what you want.” While Masha sighed over her mother’s inability to be “progressive,” she made herself comfortable: in cafés where boys from out of town paid for coffee, in “networking” circles full of success talk, and on the mental plane, forging spiritual connections with London per her favourite blogger’s tips. She didn’t rush into work or relationships—she and the city needed time to get acquainted. After four months, Mum paid rent from her own wages, quit dishwashing, and began cooking at another branch of the school. Masha had ditched several courses, auditioned at a radio station, appeared as an extra in a student film (where her pay was pasta and tinned stew), and briefly dated two ‘busking musicians’: one was a real donkey, the other a multi-dad tomcat not ready to settle down. *** “Mum, do you want to do something tonight? Pizza, movie?” Masha yawned one evening in the “Churchill-relax” pose while Mum fussed with her hair. “Order whatever, I’ll transfer you the money. Don’t hold dinner back for me—I may not need it when I get back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up, staring at her mum’s back. “I’ve got a dinner invite”—Mum giggled like a schoolgirl. “Who from?” Masha sounded decidedly unthrilled. “There was an Ofsted inspection at school. I made those meatballs you loved as a kid. The head of the inspection asked to meet the ‘head chef.’ We joked, had coffee—and tonight, well, I’m cooking him dinner.” “You’ve lost your mind! Going over to some random man’s house? For dinner?!” “So what?” “Haven’t you thought that he might not be after your food?” “Darling, I’m forty, single, he’s forty-five, smart, and attractive. Honestly, I’ll be happy with any of his expectations.” “You—You sound like some hopeless villager with no options.” “I don’t recognise you. You dragged me here to *live*, not exist.” Hard to argue with that. Masha suddenly realised they’d swapped roles, and that stung. She ordered the largest pizza she could and self-soothed with cheese until midnight, when her mother came in, glowing with happiness. “So? How was it?” Masha asked bleakly. “A lovely chap, definitely not a dodgy spud—local through and through.” Mum giggled and went to shower. Soon Mum was out on dates: theatre trips, a stand-up night, a jazz concert. She got a library card, joined the local tea appreciation club, re-registered with the local GP and, six months later, enrolled in professional courses, earning certificates and picking up gourmet cooking skills. Masha wasn’t wasting time, either. She tried for jobs at fancy firms. None worked out—each new “perfect” role slipped away. She lost most of her city friends once they stopped footing her bills, and so she became a barista, then quickly moved to a night shift bartender. Routine set in: dark circles, time lost, energy sapped, and no love life to speak of. The only suggestive remarks came from drunken clientele, who were nowhere near the English definition of a ‘pure romance’. In the end, Masha had had enough. “You know what, Mum? You were right—there’s nothing for us here. Sorry I dragged you—let’s go home,” Masha blurted after another rough bar shift. “What? Go where?” Mum asked, packing a suitcase. “Home, obviously—the place where our surname is finally correct on the gas bill, where our GP knows us. You were right from the start.” “I’m registered here now, and I don’t want to leave,” Mum stopped her and looked into her teary eyes to figure out the real problem. “Well, I do! I want to go home! I hate it here—the Tube’s daft, coffee costs more than steak, and everyone in the bar is so snooty. I have friends back home, a flat—there’s nothing keeping me here. Besides, you’re packing your stuff too!” “I’m moving in with Jeff,” Mum replied, matter-of-fact. “You’re what—moving in with Jeff?!” “Well, you’re sorted, paying your own way in the city—Masha, this is a gift! Strong, beautiful, with a job and a London flat. Your opportunities are endless—honestly! Thank you for making me leave. I’d have rotted in that bog if not for you. Here—life’s actually brimming! Thank you!” Mum kissed both her cheeks, but Masha wasn’t feeling it. “Mum, what about *me*? Who’ll look after me?!” she sobbed. “Insurance, salary, WiFi—and I’m sure you’ll find a nice ‘chap’ too,” Mum echoed her earlier words. “So you’re just abandoning me? Just like that?” “Not abandoning—you promised no drama, remember?” “Yeah… Alright, give me the keys.” “They’re in my bag. But, just one thing.” “What?” “Your gran wants to move too. I’ve sorted it all with her on the phone. Pop over and help her pack?” “Gran’s moving here?!” “Yep— I sold her the same story: better life, nice chaps, escape the bog. The post office nearby wants a new clerk, and after forty years in that ‘business’, she can send a letter to the North Pole without a stamp—and it’ll still get there! She should give it a go before her roots start wilting too.” A New Chapter: How Mum and Daughter Left Small-Town Stagnation for London’s Wild Ride, Swapped Roles, Faced Failures and Found Themselves—With Gran Soon to Follow

Towards a New Life

Mum, how much longer are we going to rot in this dead-end? Were not even in a proper small town. Its a village in a village! sang my daughter, Sarah, as she returned from the local coffee shop.

Sarah, Ive told you a hundred times: this is our home, our familys been here for generations. Im not going anywhere, Mum replied, stretched out on the settee, her aching legs perched on a cushion. She called this pose her Churchill at rest.

For heavens sake, Mum, enough about roots. In ten years your roots will have withered, and then another sad geezer will turn up whom youll want me to call Dad, Sarah joked, a sting in her words.

Wounded, Mum got up and walked over to the mirror built into the wardrobe.

Theres nothing wrong with my roots, stop making a fuss…

I know, but right now theyre hanging in there. A few more years and thats it youll be a right turnip, or a pumpkin, or sweet potato. Take your pick, chefs choice, Sarah quipped.

Look, if you want to move, then move. At your age, youre allowed to do what you like legally. Why do you need me there?

For consciences sake, Mum. Wholl look after you here if I clear off for some better life?

My insurance, my steady pay packet, the internet, and, well, maybe some chap will turn up, just like you said. Its easy for you to bugger off youre young, you get this world, youre not driven mad by teenagers yet, while Im basically halfway to joining the Pearly Gates.

Thats not true! Youre as sharp as my mates, and youre only forty…

Why would you say that out loud? To ruin my day?

If we count it in cat years, youre just five, Sarah said quickly.

Youre forgiven.

Mum, its not too late, lets just pack our bags and go. Theres nothing here holding us back.

Last month I finally got them to spell our surname right on the gas bill, and were linked to the GP surgery, Mum offered, as if these were her last cards.

Theyll treat us anywhere with the NHS, and we dont have to sell the house. If it doesnt work out, weve got somewhere to come back to. Ill get you out and show you how to really live.

My doctor told me at a scan: Shell never give you a quiet life. I thought he was joking. No wonder he won bronze on Britains Psychic Challenge. Fine, lets go; but if it all falls apart, promise youll let me come back without any tears or drama?

Promise!

The co-author of your birth made the same promise in the registry office and you two have the same blood group.

***

Sarah and Mum didnt bother stopping at a simple town straight to London it was. After emptying out the savings of three years, we moved into a tiny studio flat out by the end of the line, wedged between a street market and the coach station, paying four months rent up front. The money seemed gone before wed even started spending it.

Sarah was calm, bubbling with energy. Forget the dull unpacking and trying to make the place a home: she dove straight into big city life the creative scene, society, the London nightlife. She fit right in, picking up the lingo and dress sense, mingling with ease, as if shed never lived in some rural nowhere, but had just appeared from the rarefied London air and a streak of pure snobbery.

Mum, meanwhile, existed in a haze between her morning herbal teas and evening sleep remedies. On that very first day, even with Sarah urging her to explore, she started trawling for work. The city offered jobs and wages that never quite matched up and always seemed to have a catch. After a quick calculation, Mum could tell with no help from psychics: at best, wed last half a year, then wed crawl home.

Dismissing criticism from her modern child, Mum played it safe: found a post as a chef in a private school, then washed dishes in the café round the corner on evenings.

Mum, youre tied to the stove all day again! Might as well have stayed put. Youll never see what London has to offer. Couldnt you train up as something else a designer, a sommelier, or at the very least, do eyebrows for people? Take the Tube, drink coffee, just adapt!

Sarah, Im not cut out for retraining right now. Dont worry about me Ill cope, Ill manage. You focus on getting on as you wanted.

With a sigh about her mums lack of vision, Sarah set about settling in making herself comfortable at a café where blokes from the same sort of background paid for her; making progress mentally, forging spiritual and Instagrammable connections with London, as a certain online guru had advised; joining groups who only ever talked about money and success. Sarah wasnt in a rush to get a proper job, let alone a proper relationship. She and the city needed to have a good sniff at each other first.

After four months, Mum was paying the rent herself, left the dishwashing behind and started cooking for a second school branch. Sarah, meanwhile, had given up on several courses, gone to a radio audition, worked as an extra in some student film where they paid her in pot noodles, and briefly dated two London musicians, one of whom turned out to be a grade-A donkey, the other a notorious womaniser with a brood of kids and no desire to settle down.

***

Mum, are you going out tonight? Shall we just get a pizza delivery and watch a film? Im shattered, cant be bothered to go anywhere, Sarah yawned, flopping onto the sofa in her Churchill at rest posture as Mum primped in the mirror.

You order, Ill transfer you the money. Dont save me any, I doubt Ill be hungry when I get back.

What do you mean, when you get back? Where are you off to? Sarah sat up, suspicious.

Ive been asked out to dinner, Mum replied, suddenly sounding like a coy teenager.

Who by? Sarah demanded, not at all pleased.

We had an Ofsted inspection at school. I made them those meatballs you liked as a kid. The head inspector asked if he could meet the chef. I laughed, seemed a silly joke a head chef at a school! Anyway, we ended up having a coffee, just like you said I should. Tonight, Im cooking him a homemade dinner.

Youre mad! Going round to some strange mans? For dinner?!

Whats the harm?

Havent you thought what hes after? Its not your roast lamb, thats for sure!

Sarah, Im forty and not married. Hes forty-five, clever, handsome, single. Frankly, Ill take whatever he is after.

Youre hopeless. Talking like some desperate country girl, like you havent got a choice.

Says the one who dragged me here, so I could finally live.

Theres no arguing with that. Suddenly it hit Sarah that she and Mum had switched places. It was all a bit much. She spent the night punishing herself with the largest pizza she could order, self-loathing peaking by midnight. That was when Mum came home, radiant enough to light the hallway without switching anything on.

Well, how was it? Sarah asked gloomily.

Hes a proper English gent, and not a pest at all, Mum giggled before slipping off to the shower.

Mum started going on more dates: theatre, stand-up comedy, some jazz gig, joined a book club, got into the tea society and registered at the local GP. Half a year later, she signed up for some professional courses, racking up certificates and learning to cook fancy meals.

Sarah wasnt wasting time either. She had no plans to live off her mums strong back so she tried for decent jobs. But every time she went for a promising position, it just chewed her up and spat her out. With no friends left, since none of them fancied paying her way anymore, Sarah landed a job as a barista and, after two months, swapped it for night shifts behind the bar.

Routine crept in: bags under the eyes, energy drained, time nicked by work. Her love life was no better pub regulars would slur vague compliments, but none of them were ever remotely close to true love. Eventually, Sarah had enough.

You know what, Mum? You were right, theres nothing for me here. Sorry for dragging you. We should go home, Sarah announced one morning, battered by another restless night shift.

Go where, love? Home? Mum asked, packing a suitcase.

Yes, where else? Back to where they spell our name right on the gas bill and we can actually see the GP. You were right all along.

Im signed up here now. And I dont want to go back, Mum said gently, peering at her daughters red eyes, trying to understand.

But Im not! I want to go home! I hate it here the stupid Tube, coffee that costs as much as a steak, smug faces in the bar. I want to go back. Ive got mates there, our own house, and here theres nothing for me. And youre packing anyway.

Im moving in with David, Mum suddenly revealed.

What do you mean, moving in with David?

Well, youre settled now. You can manage the flat on your own. Sarah, Im giving you a gift! Grown, gorgeous, employed, living in the capital. There are opportunities pouring out the taps here! Im so grateful you brought me. Without you, Id still be stuck. But here lifes flowing! Thank you! She planted kisses on both cheeks, but Sarah barely noticed.

Mum, but what about me? Whos going to look after me? Sarah sobbed openly now.

Insurance, steady pay, Wi-Fi… maybe a nice man will show up, just as you said to me, Mum grinned, quoting herself.

Youre abandoning me, then? Just like that?

Im not abandoning you but you promised me, no drama, remember?

I remember Fine. Give me the keys to the house.

Theyre in my bag. Just do me one favour?

What?

Your Nans decided to move too. Weve talked she wants to come here. Can you help her pack?

Nans moving here?!

Yes, told her about the better life, men, and the old village. Turns out theres a job going at the Post Office, and you know what shes like after forty years in the trade, she can get any letter to the North Pole, stamp or not. Let her have a shot, before her roots dry out completely.Sarah slumped down on the suitcase and let her laughter tumble out, even as she wiped away the last stubborn traces of tears. The absurdity of it allthe grand escape, the glitzy future, and now, a full-circle boomerang straight back to their own family circuswas almost too much.

A knock rattled the thin door. Sarah yanked it open, expecting a neighbors complaint, but instead there stood Nan, her ancient tartan wheelie bag glinting with familiar stickersone from Blackpool, one peeling off from Greece, old and battered like herself but no less determined.

Come here, love, Nan said, arms outstretched, voice as solid as the village stone. I brought you a pork pie and your mums old mugin case she nicked all the cups. Lets have a proper brew before this city chews us both up, eh?

Sarahs lips twitched. Youre serious, arent you, Nan?

As a double-decker in the rain, Nan winked, pushing past the threshold. She surveyed the shoebox of a flat, clucked her tongue, and set her bag down like an anchor.

Mum, halfway out the door already, paused to take in the scenethree generations, all halfway home, halfway gone. There was a moments hush, the kind you only get at the top of a breath before you laugh or cry.

Then Mum grinned. Ill pop round with dinner Friday. No point starting a new life on an empty stomach. And Sarah? Show Nan the shops. Try not to get lost.

Sarah watched her mother disappear into Londons neon warren, one hand in Davids, the other holding her own future tucked beneath her elbow. She turned to Nan, who was already fussing about, trying to straighten crooked shelves and muttering about the price of eggs.

Suddenly, instead of being left behind, Sarah felt something turn inside out; the world no longer spinning her, but inviting her to spin with it. Maybe roots werent about where you started, but who you brought alongor who turned up at the door, pork pie in hand.

She laugheda small, bright sound, full of relief and possibilityand, with Nan bustling beside her, she set about unpacking again. Maybe this time, life would finally feel like their own.

Outside, the city kept bustling, oblivious. But, just for a heartbeat, in a tiny flat above the market, it felt like home was wherever they decided to plant it.