On a warm morning in September 2003, my friend and I walked into a café in Sydney’s Darlinghurst neighbourhood. We’d flown in from London the previous night, and were staying nearby. The hotel receptionist recommended this place, Bills, for breakfast.
In the weeks leading up to my Australia trip, I’d been excited, dreaming about all the places I’d be visiting: Sydney, the Blue Mountains, the desert, Byron Bay. Now I’d finally arrived, I was unsettled.
What was I thinking, booking a two-month trip to the other side of the world, when I’d spent only a handful of nights away from my parents during the past eighteen months? The trip was a celebration for having made it through almost a year of breast cancer treatment; the kind of trip it took a cancer diagnosis for someone like me (career-focused, and not exactly a free spirit) to go on. And here I was, in this beautiful, buoyant city, missing the security of my parents’ home and my childhood bedroom, which I’d moved back into after becoming ill.
Bills was on the ground floor of a two-storey period house. As soon as I stepped into its sunny, white-painted interior, its centerpiece a communal oak table, something in me softened. The chairs, with their cane seats, even reminded me of home. And the menu was full of the breakfasts I dreamt of making, but never got round to: sweetcorn fritters, ricotta hotcakes. I don’t remember what I ate, but I do remember how being in that space, with its delicious food and warm service, helped anchor me in this city, ten thousand miles from home.
On a cool morning in May 2023, I walked into a London branch of Bills (now called Granger & Co). The Sydney original had, in the intervening two decades, expanded into a small global chain. That morning, I was feeling the opposite of homesick: I love my home, but I don’t love the toys strewn everywhere, or my husband’s expanding collection of camera gear taking up residence on every available surface. I often dream of escaping to a sleek hotel room, devoid of stuff.
That Saturday morning, a rare one I had to myself, as my husband and son were away, I was eager to escape the clutter. It also happened to be the anniversary of my cancer diagnosis, a day when I always try to do something nice, as I never want to forget what a privilege it is to still be here.
While the original Bills felt more like hanging out at someone’s house, this one, in Marylebone, had terrazzo flooring, caramel leather banquettes and granite tables. I managed to get one of my favourite seats, opposite the bar and near the big plate-glass window, from where I could watch the beautiful waiters making coffee, the guests streaming in and out, and the passers-by on the high street. I drank a flat white and ate toasted coconut bread, then read my book for a bit. I left, rejuvenated.
A couple of weeks ago, I read that Bill Granger, the founder of these restaurants, had died. I felt sadder than I usually do when reading about a stranger’s death. Partly because he was only fifty-four. Also, because he’d created places that, during my many visits over the years, had given me much joy.
And the news brought home how unpredictable life is, how none of us can know how long we have here.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be mentioning death in my first letter of 2024. It is, after all, the start of a new year; a time to be bright and optimistic. And yet, I find being aware of the impermanence of all things is inextricably linked to my capacity to live a full, rich and joyful life. Without this awareness, it’s easy to drift along, thinking we have forever, and neither create the changes we long for, nor appreciate the beauty already surrounding us. Such as the iridescent spheres of the bubbles I blow for my son when he’s in his bath, which briefly float through the air before dissolving. ‘They’re magic,’ he says. And he’s right.
At the dawn of this new year, can we pause to remember impermanence, and use it as an invitation to guide us towards what truly matters to us. Whether it’s qualities we want more of, such as more courage or more calm. Or something we yearn to create, be it a new home, a novel, or a jumper.
Inviting in more of what lights us up feels good, of course. Our joy is also transmitted to others. Be it from carving out time to go to a movement class we love, and which makes us better-tempered around our family. Or through baking a cake for a friend, or writing a poem that moves people.
As Maya Angelou said, ‘People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’ Here’s to a 2024 where we prioritize what we need to feel joyful and alive, and remember the ripple effect doing so also has on the lives of those around us.
And thank you, Bill Granger, for the joy you created during your too brief time here.
Love,
Annabel x
I’ve also written a 10-page feature called ‘Land Softly Into The New Year’ for the January 2024 issue of Psychologies magazine (available in newsagents, or via the Readly app), about how to use the clean slate of a new year as an opportunity to walk yourself closer to a life that’s in alignment with who you truly are and what you yearn for. It’s packed with wisdom and tips from some incredible experts.
And below are two wonderful structured journals, by excellent life coaches. I highly recommend either as a tool to help clarify and implement what you desire.
The Priorities Method by Lily Silverton
Goodbye 2023,Hello 2024 by Selina Barker/Project You
Thank you for your inspiring writing, Annabel. Wishing you a wellspring of little joyful moments for 2024!
Thank you for this letter Annabel, for the reminder of impermanence and of prioritising joy, definitely something I want to do more of in 2024 xx