I sit at my desk, the middle Wednesday of August with the now familiar unsettled feeling I get after a trip away. A slightly manic wiping of kitchen surfaces, vacuuming carpets I only vacuumed a few days ago. A brisk walk down our steps to put out the recycling. Busy, busy as my mind turns over the previous 24-hours.

Twenty-four hours, give or take a few minutes. That’s all. One day. The train transporting me to another world, from Ilkley to London. London with its muggy heat. Noise. Traffic. Humans. Hustle and energy. So much energy.

And I love it.

We walk slowly from our hotel in Bloomsbury and pass a blue plaque on iron railings commemorating Emmeline Pankhurst. We cross a parched Russell Square. Young children dance in and out of the fountain. Men and women stride along the paths talking into the air. Headphones in ears, coffees in hand. Phones hidden from view. A strange sight. Tea and conversation takes place under the umbrellas of the Italian café.

Covent Garden beckons with Apple, Chanel, Dior and the more familiar Punch and Judy pub. We sit down outside Shake Shack with a 50:50 iced tea and lemonade for me, vanilla shake for my 13 year old. More people watching and fanning the non-existent air.

We leave Covent Garden behind and head into Soho for Mary Poppins at the Prince Edward theatre. The reason we’re in London. Our seats are just six rows from the edge of the stage and orchestra pit. I spend the first few minutes in awe of the cast, musicians and crew. As I do at every live event I go to. It blows my mind, these people and their wealth of talent. How completely fabulous to know that the stage and lighting you create, the notes you sing. The dance steps you take on stage and music you play under the cover of the pit has the capacity to transport people to another world. How precious the arts and creatives are in our chaotic world.

Laughter and smiles of joy swiftly turn to shock and awe as Bert starts walking up and above the stage during Step in Time culminating in him dangling upside down above the stage all while still signing and tap dancing.

Our mouths form perfect Os and wows reverberate as Mary Poppins flies off the stage and into the auditorium, gliding directly above us. Our heads twist and turn to follow her progress into the black theatre sky.

Our hands hurt from clapping .

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious the encore. What else?

We stumble out onto the Soho pavements, Bar Italia and Cafe de Nata. People sit outside, having a drink. London still very much awake at this not late hour. We start walking back to Bloomsbury, the pavements busy, the roads quiet. No black cabs, no buses and so we walk.

I spot the Coach & Horses, the pub my ex-brother-in-law and his friends frequented on Friday evenings in the nineties. Drinking and chatting while being verbally abused by Norman, the infamous landlord. Meanwhile I’d be sitting with my sister and then baby niece in their living room in Westbourne Grove. Mia on my lap as we chat, Top of the Pops on in the background. A bowl of sour cream and chive Pringles for starters followed by fish and chips. Glass of wine precariously balanced on magazines and books on the side table. A Friday evening routine re-enacted Friday after Friday for months.

I used to love a noisy drink, pub, club and dance fuelled Saturday night out in my twenties, but Friday nights were a quieter experience. A gentle pause to mark the end of the working week, swapping whichever flatshare I was living in for some home comforts and family time.

A memory relegated to the dusty corner of my mind until Monday night. But when I next check Facebook the first post I spot is from my niece, now a twenty something teacher on holiday in New York. She’s swapped London, where she still lives for Manhattan this summer.

There’s a familiar, persistent and annoying Tamoxifen/post-Covid anxiety that creeps up on me the I get closer to trips away these days. My brain stubbornly refuses to believe the words written in the train ticket and hotel reservation emails, trying to convince me that I’ve bought the wrong train tickets. That the hotel reservation is for the wrong days. I breathe a sigh of relief when the train manager wishes me a good journey as he scans my ticket. I smile with the hotel receptionist as she passes me the key card and asks if I’m sure I don’t want to book breakfast.

It’s the anti-Portugal trip of a few weeks ago which was all about lying by the pool and reading, and my enthusiasm for being back in central London surprises me. Passing the sign for Hornsey where mum went to art college and Arsenal’s Etihad stadium a welcome and now familiar sign we’re almost at Kings Cross.

Living in Bath and Bristol where trains arrived into Paddington combined with years spent living in west London means this is a new corner of the capital for me to get to know. And I love the fact that I feel comfortable here now. Striding, marching across the pavements as I move from place to place.