I found a heart shaped stone on the beach this morning which I slipped into my pocket ready for an up and coming wedding anniversary.
I wandered then to memories of our wedding, which made me smile, swiftly followed by a flash of our first home in London.
I remembered standing at the window counting the double decker buses as they roared past our little flat late at night; a fractious baby slowly falling asleep on my shoulder.
Which brought me to my mother's first attempt at the London public transport system.
I grew up in a small village where ladies went shopping wearing green wellies and a headscarf; tranquil, sedate and very well mannered. When I fell in love with my Cockney geezer and we bought our first place, Mum and Dad always visited together as the idea of driving in London frightened her witless. Understandably too as, unlike London, road rage on a country lane equates to marauding sheep. Eventually the lure of the first grandchild became too strong and Mum decided to brave public transport. All was well until a strange, rambling man (typical Londoner really) decided to share a seat with her on the bus. He took a hard boiled egg from his pocket and carefully picked off the shell, dropping the tiny pieces into Mum's handbag. The word mortified springs to mind here.
Mum drove next time Lil's siren call reached rural Surrey. Suffice to say she arrived safely although her fingers were so deeply embedded in the steering wheel it took the promise of a large gin and tonic and a pair of pliers to prise her from the driving seat.