was halfway down Mare Street the other evening with a half eaten packet of crisps in one hand and my keys jangling in the other when it hit me again. The sky had gone that soft pinky orange colour you only get in late summer and the whole of Hackney seemed to have slowed down just for a minute. A couple of kids were kicking a ball against a wall like they had nowhere better to be. Some bloke was arguing with his dog about which way to walk. And me, well I was just pottering home after another day of telling people what to do at the bank and pretending I had all the answers. Life does love chucking curveballs at you, does it not. One minute you are sailing along thinking you have got a handle on things and the next you are wondering what the point of any of it is. Yet those little ordinary moments keep tugging me back, the ones that make you feel quietly hopeful even when everything else is a bit of a mess.
Take last Tuesday. I had spent the whole morning chasing numbers that refused to add up the way they should and by lunchtime I was ready to hide under my desk. The girls on my team were in full drama mode about who said what in the group chat and the lads were being their usual loud selves, competing over nothing important. I kept my face stern because that is the job, is it not. You cannot go soft in a big bank in East London or the whole place falls apart. But inside I was already planning my escape route, the walk home that always sorts my head out. By the time I hit the stretch near London Fields the sun was low and the air smelled of cut grass and someone cooking something spicy. I slowed right down, kicked off the work shoes in my mind even though they were still on my feet, and just let the ordinary stuff wash over me. A woman pushing a pram smiled at me for no reason. A busker was murdering a song I actually like and somehow it still sounded cheerful. That is the thing about these streets. They do not care if your day has been a right old scramble. They just keep offering up tiny bits of beauty if you bother to look.
I grew up in Basildon where ordinary was the only setting we had. Sunday roast every other week is still sacred, even now I live over this way. Mum puts the beef on early and the house fills with that proper smell that makes you feel like a kid again. Dad nags about the gravy being too thick and my brother steals the best bit of Yorkshire pudding before anyone else sits down. We sit around the table and talk about nothing and everything. No one is performing. No one is trying to sound clever. It is just us, plates piled high, and the sort of easy laughter that does not need explaining. Those afternoons remind me that purpose does not always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it is just the sound of cutlery and the knowledge that you have people who will still make space for you even when you turn up late and a bit knackered from the week.
Work tries its hardest to convince me otherwise. Being a supervisor for a bunch of under twenty fives is like herding cats who all think they are the main character. Some days I want to scream. Other days I catch myself smiling at how hard they try even when they get it wrong. I stay strict because someone has to, but once I am out of those glass doors I drop the act fast. Gym kit on, hair tied back, and off I go for a walk or a slow run if the mood takes me. Nothing fancy. Just me and the pavement and whatever thoughts want to tag along. Lately I have been noticing the way the light hits the canal near Broadway Market or how the corner shop owner always chucks in an extra bag of sweets when I buy my evening treat. Small things. Ordinary things. Yet they stitch the day back together when the curveballs have left it in pieces.
Dating is another area where life likes to keep me on my toes. I stay single on purpose most of the time because the alternative has a habit of getting complicated. I am not shy once things get going, never have been, but finding someone who can match the fire and still do the soft stuff after is rarer than a quiet tube carriage at rush hour. So I keep things light, have my fun when it turns up, and then come home to my baggy hoodie and a rubbish reality show with the girls. We sit there with snacks everywhere and full running commentary that would make the producers blush. It is chaotic and silly and exactly what I need. No deep conversations required unless someone feels like starting one. Just the comfort of knowing your people have seen you at your most ridiculous and still stick around.
Money sits in the back of my mind more than I admit. Growing up working class in Essex teaches you to watch every penny without making a song and dance about it. I am proper careful, always have been, and that discipline carries into how I run my team. Numbers make sense to me in a way people sometimes do not. They do not pretend. They just are. When a spreadsheet finally balances after a messy week I get this quiet little spark of satisfaction that no amount of office praise can match. It is ordinary work, the sort no one writes songs about, yet it keeps the lights on and gives me the freedom to walk home at my own pace when the day is done.
The world outside my little corner can feel like it is spinning too fast. Everyone is shouting about the next big thing or the latest crisis and it is easy to start wondering what any of us are meant to be doing in the middle of it all. I keep my views mostly to myself because who has the energy for arguments that go nowhere. Instead I focus on the bits I can touch. The way my nails look when I have finally sat still long enough to paint them a cheerful pink. The smell of clean laundry when I have managed to catch up on the washing. The daft pleasure of putting on an old tracksuit and flopping on the sofa with a cup of tea that is somehow always the perfect temperature. These are not grand gestures. They are just the everyday stuff that keeps the hopeful feeling alive.
Friends help more than they know. My circle is tiny on purpose. Once you are in you are stuck with me for life and that works both ways. We do not need constant check ins or dramatic declarations. Sometimes we sit in near silence and it is the most comforting thing in the world. Other times one of us will start a story about a disastrous date or a work disaster and the rest of us will pile in with jokes until the whole thing feels lighter. Loyalty like that is ordinary in the best way. It does not need filters or announcements. It just shows up.
Even the boring bits of the week have their own quiet magic if you tilt your head right. Waiting for the kettle to boil. Choosing which pair of soft socks to wear around the flat. Noticing that the plant on the windowsill has put out a new leaf without any fanfare. I used to rush past all of it, always looking for the next big highlight. These days I slow down on purpose. The curveballs still come, of course they do. A tough conversation at work. A plan that falls through. A quiet evening that feels a bit too quiet. But the small joys are patient. They wait for you to notice them again.
Walking home through Hackney at dusk remains my favourite reset button. The light softens everything. Shop signs glow. People move slower. I can hear my own footsteps and the distant hum of traffic that somehow sounds friendly instead of stressful. I think about Mum’s roast and whether I can make it down to Basildon this Sunday. I think about the team and how far a couple of them have come since I started keeping an eye on them. I think about the possibility that one day the right tall dark haired someone might walk beside me on a night like this and it will feel completely natural. Until then I have the streets and the sky and the ordinary beauty that refuses to give up on me.
There is a particular stretch near the park where the trees lean in just enough to make a green tunnel. In the evening the light filters through in soft patches and it feels like the world is giving you a gentle nudge. Keep going. Keep looking. The point of it all might not arrive in one dramatic package. It might be scattered across a hundred tiny moments that only make sense when you string them together. A shared laugh over something stupid. A perfectly made cup of tea. The knowledge that tomorrow you get to try again with slightly softer shoulders.
I still get days where the curveballs win for a while. Days where everything feels a bit pointless and I wonder why I bother with any of it. On those days I force myself out the door anyway. Even a short walk helps. The air on my face. The sound of someone laughing in a nearby garden. The silly satisfaction of stepping over the cracks in the pavement like I used to when I was little. By the time I get home the hopeful feeling has usually crept back in, quiet as you like, and I can sit with it without needing to explain it to anyone.
Ordinary days are not the enemy. They are the stage where the real stuff happens. The big dramatic chapters are exciting while they last but they do not keep you company on a random Wednesday evening when the fridge is half empty and the telly is showing something dreadful. The ordinary days do. They hold the space for you to notice the light changing or the way your own breath steadies after a long shift. They let you be soft without apology.
So I keep collecting them. The walk home. The family table. The daft nights with friends. The quiet wins at work that no one else sees. Each one is a small thread and together they make something sturdy enough to hold onto when life decides to throw the next unexpected thing my way. I do not need the universe to hand me a grand purpose on a silver plate. I just need enough of these ordinary beautiful moments to keep reminding me that hope is still allowed, even on the plainest of days.
And if that makes me sound a bit soft, well, tough. Outside the bank I get to be exactly that. Cute when I feel like it. Hopeful when the mood strikes. Sarcastic about the nonsense the world keeps serving up. And completely content to find my meaning in the everyday stuff that most people rush past without a second glance. The curveballs can keep coming. I have got my streets and my people and my quiet little list of ordinary joys ready and waiting. That feels like more than enough on most evenings.
