Thursday September 4th 2025 #2
…Maybe at this point worth mentioning that my little crush on Jones has grown somewhat since the lighthouse incident.
Am not going to write about the kiss, obviously.
Just mean that I’m no longer thinking of him as an imposter trying to steal my job, and that’s changed matters.
It was pretty much the only turnoff he had going for him, and now it’s gone, and he’s just a really good-looking man living in my house, showering in my shower, naked, every day, right there.
And now I know he’s a good kisser.
Sometimes find myself daydreaming about doing something I shouldn’t.
Like leaving the bedroom door open while I’m getting changed and he’s in the kitchen.
Or kicking the covers off when I go to bed first, in the big bedroom, and I know he’ll have to tiptoe through to the small room, but if the curtains are open and the moonlight’s coming in, he might see me lying there in my little pajama set…
Getting him to look at me, basically. I get a bit giddy when Jones looks at me. He holds eye contact like it’s something physical. And I think…I’ve always been someone a bit different depending on who’s looking, but I can’t do that with Jones, because he just looks. At me.
By the time he turns away, I’m usually a little flushed.
But obviously all of this is just fantasy, and when we’re actually together, we are just very, very polite.
I have my rule. No men. Not now. I’m searching for a different sort of love of my life, and if I let myself fall for another guy, I know what I’m like—I’ll lose my conviction.
I’ll start thinking about what he wants, whether he would be interested in me if he knew I’m pursuing motherhood on my own, so maybe I shouldn’t be, and so on and so on.
So no men. No sexy eye-contacty men who make me feel fluttery and safe all at the same time.
And no more thinking about the kiss.
Friday September 12th 2025
Found myself sitting at the kitchen table this morning, drinking coffee and wondering, Who am I?
I blame Rosie. She got me thinking all…existentially with her giant universe chat the other week.
Who am I, though? You know? Like, who actually am I? If I do have anxiety, how much of what I think I am is actually…that?
I guess giving the anxiety a name separates it from me.
And that means I can hate it—the feeling, the thoughts—without hating myself.
Before that night on Pouque Rock, whenever I considered my, like, personality, I was so busy either despising or trying to ignore this part of myself I rarely got much further than that.
But now I’m thinking…OK, I’m anxious. What else am I?
Oh, bollocks. Briefly pausing existential crisis as forgot to tell Marly we don’t need any more wheat to decorate the shop—can see her through the window carrying a whole sheaf over her shoulder like she’s stepped out of a tapestry.
Shop is already festooned in autumnal decorations thanks to paid-for “natural crafting” session with Karen from the committee, who runs them for tourists (desperate attempt to get her on my side.
Medium success. She chats to me now when she drops off her flowers, especially since I started ordering larger bouquets and displaying them in buckets outside the front door.
If Galoshes is around, though, I get the cold shoulder).
brB.
Marly quite irritated—wheat was heavy, apparently. I ended up saying we did need additional sheaf after all. Will just decorate the toilets with it. No reason we can’t have seasonal loos.
Saturday September 13th 2025
New day. Am looking in wardrobe. All dresses are very mumsy.
Jones was so right about me faking it when I got here.
Shouldn’t have splurged on new outfits before leaving the mainland—was a costly mistake.
Did I really think wearing a knee-length skirt would help me transform into a competent single mum?
My self-belief was at rock bottom, wasn’t it?
May not quite know who I am, but am suddenly confident it’s not a puff-sleeved dress person.
“Umm, hel-lo,” was how Red greeted me when I got to the shop today. “Slay, Charlie!”
Could’ve sworn it was Galoshes and Toby on today, but Galoshes is nowhere to be seen. After close inspection of the shop, finally spot Toby hiding behind the display of Doc Laurry’s obscure dried herbs.
Poor Doc Laurry—he’s still on standby to bake us daily biscuits for the shop.
He’s rearranged his whole schedule at the medical center and everything, but each time we try to move forward, it gets to the weekly committee meeting and stalls.
This time it was blocked on “environmental grounds” (something about Doc’s use of manure when growing certain ingredients), thanks to Kim, who did at least have the decency to apologize to Doc about it afterward.
Galoshes has made this her vendetta, and it’s clear that until we can talk her around, Doc’s outrageously delicious biscuits will remain an Ormer secret, and all those equally delicious profits from hungry tourists will elude us.
“Wow, is ‘slay’ still in?” I asked Red as I chucked my handbag into the back room.
“I’m an Ormerer now. We travel by horse and cart here. I think I can get away with slaying for another century or two.”
“Noted. You like it? I’m trying to wear what I actually want to wear.”
She didn’t seem to think this at all odd. Red strikes me as someone who wakes up in the morning and chooses what she wants to wear based on what will bring her joy, without thinking about whom she’ll be seeing and what they might think. How thrilling. Maybe I’ll get there one day?
Meanwhile Toby was sorting packets of dried herbs and looking more-than-usually uncomfortable about the direction this conversation had taken.
“What does this outfit say to you?” I asked Red, twirling.
I’m wearing a long skirt patterned in red and gold—something from my old life that I’ve always loved, but have styled differently now that I’m an island woman.
I’m in a pair of battered brown leather boots that Rosie gave me (the woman is a font of good shoes) and a cozy cream jumper, which I’ve tucked into the skirt, because I’m too millennial to do otherwise.
“It says…earthy goddess,” Red said after a minute of gratifyingly close examination. “Earthy goddess who gets shit done.”
Delighted with this. Think it might be my true identity? Going to try it out for the rest of the day.
Tuesday September 16th 2025
Oh my God.
Think I know why the till doesn’t bloody balance.
Just nipped back to the shop at the end of the day to grab a jar of honey for my chamomile tea (which really needs the honey. Sometimes wonder if I should just not bother with the tea bag at all).
Paused at the door—light was on behind our new Bramblebay Farm Shop sign. The shop’s flagstones were freshly mopped, which meant Rog had finished up. Maybe he left the light on by accident, I thought.
Then there was a noise. A thud.
Someone was in there.
A thief! I thought. What do I do?!
Habit told me to ring 999, but immediately realized it would probably be quicker to message Jerry direct.
He’s the constable, and he also supplies our milk—we speak most days.
Suddenly found myself thinking of lovely Jerry the milkman in different light.
He’s one of my favorite committee members, but he’s also deeply unintimidating.
And he was the person who was going to see off this thief?
Maybe I should ring…someone else? First thought was Jones—he can really loom and has a good glower when he’s pretending to be a dickhead.
But felt a righteous feminist indignation at having to call my male counterpart to sort this situation.
What a pain in the arse it is, being a woman.
Maybe I should learn martial arts, then shit like this wouldn’t scare me so much.
Tiptoed around to the next window to peek in. Was aiming to get a good look at the thief, decide whether I could sort the situation without martial arts skills or men.
It was Rog. With his hand in the till.
He was humming, and shoving a couple of twenties in his back pocket.
Rog! Stealing! From the shop! Am floored, to be honest. I like Rog. He’s sweet—he was one of the first people I ever spoke to on this island. He helped me plant the flowers in our garden, and he never complains about doing four hundred jobs at once.
Belatedly realized he was heading for the door.
Looked around frantically. There was the bush I climbed over on my first day here—can’t actually believe I did that, it does not look mountable right now—and the bike racks, and the new picnic benches we finally got the committee to allow us…
Nowhere to hide. At last moment I regained my wits and dove around the side of the barn, flattening myself to the wall as Rog ambled off down the track, spinning the farm shop keys on his finger.
A thief in our midst! Feel crappy about it. Our motley team at the farm shop is completely dysfunctional—nobody gets along, nobody can agree on what the shop needs, but…it’s our team.
Am a bit gutted. But I guess Rog is going to have to manage with one fewer job.