The Posh Paw Blog

I’m on my way back to my parents’ place — back to where I grew up, the sleepy little town of Saffron Walden.  Even the name sounds like it belongs in a song, doesn’t it?  “I’m just mad about Saffron…”  I can almost hear Donovan humming it in the background as the fields roll past my window.  There’s something about this time of year that always brings me back to that mellow yellow kind of mood — unhurried, a little sentimental, and just bright enough to warm the edges of winter.

Every December, I trade my city chaos for this quieter hue of home.  The streets move slower here; even the air feels softer, like it’s been steeped in honey.  The bakery still smells of almonds, the church bells still argue with the pigeons, and my parents’ house still leans slightly to the left — just like it did when I was sixteen and certain life was waiting for me somewhere else.

The familiar fields blur into familiar rooftops. I get off, wheel my little overpacked suitcase across, and suddenly it happens — snap. Just like that, I’m no longer Luce Beaumont, blogger, dancer, city girl extraordinaire. I’m sixteen again, stomping down these pavements in boots two sizes too big, convinced I’d grow into them any day now

And of course the moment I walk into the house, the second I step into that old creaky hallway, everything shifts. My mum swoops in with her usual, “Good heavens, Lulu, you look exhausted — are you eating properly?” And there it is: my old family role, I am no longer Luce or Lucy – once again I’m Lulu, the daughter who doesn’t rest, the daughter who works too hard, the daughter who needs feeding the way most people need therapy.

A moment later my dad appears, glasses halfway down his nose, wearing the Christmas jumper he’s worn every year since the late nineties. He gives me one long we look, opens his arms, and says in his low, warm voice, “There she is.” And just like that, I am sixteen again, safe and small, the world suddenly simple.

The house smells exactly the same — cinnamon, old books, and whatever mysterious wood polish my dad refuses to replace. I drop my suitcase in the hallway, kick off my shoes, and everything feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’m bigger now. I’m not sure.

“Come on, Lulu,” Mum calls from the kitchen. “You can peel carrots. Carefully. I don’t trust you with anything sharper than that until you’ve eaten.”

I walk in to find her in full command mode — apron tied with military precision, hair pinned up with a pencil because she lost the good hairclip in 1994, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Mum has two cooking speeds: toast and full medieval feast. Tonight, we’re clearly in feast mode.

“I thought we’d keep it simple,” she says, lifting the lid from a pan that is absolutely not simple. Roast chicken. Stuffing. Potatoes crisping in goose fat. Vegetables steaming. A gravy bubbling with a suspiciously rich aroma. “Just something quick for your first night back.”

Dad attempts to sneak a finger toward a cooling tray of mince pies.

“Patrick,” Mum snaps without looking.

He withdraws the hand.

They’ve been doing this dance for forty years.

She tosses a peeler at me. “Chop.”

I take my place at the counter — the same counter I used for homework, diary-writing, angry teenage scribbling. The window above the sink still has the little bubble in the pane where the glassmaker made a mistake decades ago. I used to sit there and imagine it was a portal to a kinder universe, where boys weren’t confusing, and I was disappointing someone every five minutes.

Dinner is ready far too quickly considering how much food there is. Mum sets the table like she’s expecting royalty — cloth napkins, candles, the “nice plates,” the ones that aren’t too nice but definitely nicer than a random Tuesday in December deserves.

We sit.

Dad says grace, even though he only remembers half of it and improvises the rest.

Mum kicks him lightly under the table when he mentions “the abundance of this feast that appears simple but is, in fact, deceptively elaborate.”

Conversation flows in the usual Beaumont pattern — a rhythm we fall into like dancers who’ve practiced the routine for years.

After dinner, Dad insists I sit by the fire while he “handles the washing up,” which means Mum does the washing up and he stands beside her drying exactly one plate every ten minutes while telling a story she’s already heard. Mum expects nothing less than perfect when it comes to washing up, and well, Dad gets distracted in his stories, so Mum quickly interferes, ”I’ll do the washing up, otherwise we will just have to do it twice, it’s a waste of time, dear.”

I wander up the stairs — the same stairs I used to stomp up dramatically when grounded — and push open the door to my old room, and there she is. Holly Golightly.

Still taped to the wall, still regal, still impossibly stylish.

Most people assume Audrey Hepburn is my icon—and she is, in many ways. But Holly? Holly Golightly is my deity. My teenage lighthouse. My blueprint for finding glamour in chaos and courage in vulnerability.

Seeing her now, in this room frozen in time, reminded me of something I often forget: before I was Luce Beaumont, woman of glitter, confidence, and questionable baking habits… I was just a girl lying on this bed, watching Holly on a scratched DVD, dreaming of who I might become.

I look around, my teenage books are still lined up on the shelf. My first pair of glasses still in the drawer — the red plastic ones I begged for and then refused to wear. And next to the lamp is the space where I used to keep my diary… right where I now place my grown-up glasses, gently, like setting down a fragile truth.

I change into my pyjamas, climb under the duvet that still smells faintly of lavender, and before turning off the light, I whisper:

“You and me, Holly.”

Merry Christmas,
Luce 💋