Cressida Bonas

Is a dog man’s best friend? Or is man a dog’s best friend? There is no relationship quite like that between dog and human. My husband loves me, but if I locked him in a cupboard for ten minutes, he would be furious. If I locked my dog up for an hour, she would be nothing but overjoyed to see me when I let her out. There is something profoundly moving about two friends who have such a complete, unquestioning trust in each other. Our dog, Budgie, has become a firm fixture in our lives – she accompanies me everywhere. Last week she wasn’t allowed in the Post Office and I took it as a personal affront. A nice man looked after her outside while I posted my parcel. I gave the lady in the Post Office a firm look as if to say: ‘How could you?

Should we pay more attention to our dreams? Are they signs from our subconscious, guiding and pointing us in certain directions? Perhaps that would explain why we often feel the need to describe them to others: to help make sense of them. Since being pregnant my dreams have got wilder. They are vivid and often haunting. I was told that you can’t dream about a face you’ve never seen, but strangers regularly pitch up in mine. Some people say it’s boring when others talk about their dreams. I disagree. I think it’s fascinating to hear where minds go at night; our parallel lives. Whether they cover frightening or familiar territory, dreams are stories.

I thought I knew how to breathe properly. My years of studying dance at various institutions have all involved tuition on breathing and its relationship with movement and posture. So I was sceptical when I joined my step-sister Octavia’s online breathwork classes – what more was there to learn? My first class was in lockdown, at a time when many of us felt in a continual state of anxiety. We were guided through various techniques that manipulated the rate and depth of our breathing. It was dynamic and intense, much harder than I imagined. But nothing much happened at first. I started to think that maybe this wasn’t for me.

Every once in a while, a book comes along that causes me to undergo a genuine shift in perspective. Abi Morgan’s This is Not a Pity Memoir had exactly this effect. Abi’s partner and father of her two children, Jacob, was put into an induced coma after his treatment for multiple sclerosis had caused a series of seizures. When he regained consciousness, he recognised his family and friends, but insisted that Abi was a stranger, or, worse, an imposter. The story is heart breaking, profound and even funny. Abi describes the challenge of caring for someone who no longer remembered her. She found the journey of making a new life when so much had changed to be terrifying.

Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, Jemima Puddle Duck, Squirrel Nutkin and Timmy Tiptoes are names that take me back to my childhood. Every year, my mum would drive me and my four siblings to the Swiss mountains for family holidays. To avoid our moans of ‘are we there yet?’ she created voices for all of the Beatrix Potter characters and invented songs which we all sang along to. Although we knew the stories of Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and, of course, Peter Rabbit, it was later that I learnt about the fascinating woman behind the famous tales who is the subject of the V&A’s exhibition, Beatrix Potter: Dawn to Nature.

Last week I went to The Hammersmith Apollo to see Ludovico Einaudi perform his new album Underwater. I hadn’t been to a concert since before the pandemic and had forgotten the thrill of live music. Recordings can never match the sensual and social experience of live performance. When listened to collectively,  music unmasks the soul – solitary emotions are suddenly shared – and it connects us to something greater than ourselves. Music is the medium I go to for comfort when life is not quite making sense Underwater is Einaudi’s first solo piano album in two decades, becoming the fastest streamed classical music album in history. High minded critics turn their noses up, calling his music ‘elementary’.

Every day when my niece gets home from school she seems angry and frustrated. She wonders why we can’t do more to help the people in Ukraine. She is bewildered by video clips of children saying goodbye to their fathers who are staying behind to defend their country. Since the shocking news of the invasion broke, she has joined her school politics group and wants to learn more about the conflict, why it is happening, and what can be done. She is aware of the contrast between her sheltered life and those less fortunate. I asked her mum (my sister) how she parents in this situation. Her greatest concern is how to preserve her daughter’s innocence when she’s so well informed. ‘Everything is out there, you can’t just hide from it.

A suitcase landed in my garden. It seemed to have come from the sky. Soon after, two policemen urgently knocked on my door. Confused, I invited them in, they hurriedly went to retrieve the bag. Inside was a load of money, drugs and keys belonging to expensive cars. They inquired if the items were mine. ‘Certainly not,’ I said. After they’d gone, I was filled with questions. That evening the policemen returned and I was interviewed for an hour. I asked them for more information, but they were unable to tell me anything. Drug deals occur regularly on our street. They happen in a flash; a hand through a car window, bowed heads and hushed voices. The flying suitcase incident added a touch of reality to one of my favourite past times which is crime fiction.

The beginning of January is a blank slate. A time where we feel a sense of excitement as to what the year will bring.  As each year rolls into a new one, my hopes for the future have included the usual – more exercise, more travel, more greens… Typically, I fail to keep to my promises. I asked my family and friends if they manage to stick to their resolutions. They don’t either. It doesn’t help that we live in a society obsessed with success. There's a fine balance between dreaming big and setting oneself up for a fall. I keep a box of my favourite poems, letters, old journals and unfinished stories. Within these stamps of the past, I can see paths not taken, disappointments, failures and mistakes.

The book Small Pleasures will warm even the stoniest heart. It defines joy as simple, brief instances in everyday life which people can access with little or no cost. My favourite chapters include: the joy of an evening sky, letting a child win at a game, a hot bath. We tend to let these things pass by unnoticed for the pursuit of other, bigger pleasures. This year, we had time to stop and pay attention. My new peace of mind was interrupted last week as I walked down a quiet pavement on a blue-sky day enjoying the cold air and sun on my face. A van drove past, the driver wound down his window, beeped his horn and shouted something sexist at me. I felt angry. I had an urge to chase after him and call out something equally offensive.

My aunt, Charlotte, had a profound influence on my life. A second mother, a friend and someone who was always there. The thief that took her was the rare disease PSP. It slipped into our lives with no warning and ripped her away from us. The house she lived in was a home to our family. Somewhere we could always go. An anchor in my childhood. Recently her son (my cousin) and my four siblings spent a weekend there. We lit the fire and chatted about the goings on in our lives. Pictures of our aunt and her beautiful treasures which remain in the same place as well as the familiar smell when I walked through the front door. We looked at the space on the sofa where she always sat with her two dogs. It was as if she was there, listening to us, but of course she wasn’t.

I sat next to a man at dinner who told me I was nosey. Perhaps he was right, although I saw it as being curious. When a conversation consists of weather patterns, I like to throw in a personal question. That way I learn something more interesting about that individual other than his views on meteorology. However, in this case it unnerved the poor man. He glanced at me sideways and reached for his wine. I’m a hypocrite, of course. I hate talking about my private life. But that doesn’t stop me from taking an interest in other people’s lives and loves. Otherwise I find myself falling asleep and I too have to reach for more wine. There can be truth and wisdom in foolishness When I was younger, I loved the story of Alice and Wonderland.

More than any other season, autumn brings to mind change. Perhaps it's the sense of letting something go. The movement of the seasons is present in New Zealand artist Angela Heisch’s first solo UK show at the Pippy Houldsworth gallery, entitled Burgeon and Remain. Her semi floral abstracts represent the peak of summer and her use of bright colours are a warm welcome before we head into a darker time of year. The limitless feel to these paintings suggests growth and change, provoking a playful engagement. Stepping closer to these conceptual forms, I want to leap inside them. They are interactive and dramatic with a curious sense of mischief to them. The repeated spinning symbols grow outwards and seem to communicate to each other like trees.

I worry too much; I struggle with the unknown and I don’t like it when life doesn’t turn out as planned. This time last year Harry and I had hoped to say our vows under blue skies, witnessed by our friends and family. Instead we got married in a pandemic and a rainstorm. My sister Pandora says; ‘It’s dangerous to have high expectations - you will almost always be disappointed.’ On this occasion, however, this disappointment turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. We refused to let covid or the weather dampen our day, resulting in no hangovers of failed expectations. We must learn to live with the things we cannot control; our sanity depends on it. My chief worry is about my parents and my imagination runs wild.

I have a new love in my life; Budgie, a miniature dachshund. After collecting our little friend from Kent, she has taken over the house. I am preoccupied with how to keep her entertained. I talk about her as if she were my child. My google search history includes “tips for surviving the first 30 days with a new puppy, bonding with my pooch and how do I know if I’m becoming a dog bore?” We go out to dinner for the first time in months. Our conversation centres around how soft Budgie’s ears are and how many poos she has done that day. The topic changes course when the fastidious looking couple sitting at the next-door table roll their eyes. The lockdown puppy craze has given rise to the latest breed of organised crime.

So we can hug and kiss each other, but facemasks could be here to stay. There are some people I would rather never hug and kiss again. Nor am I sure I want to socialise in big groups, outside or inside, now that I have become accustomed to cosy nights in. My husband, Harry, calls me the hermit crab. I have spent too many happy evenings eating spaghetti bolognese watching Netflix. On the other hand, I’m longing to dance wildly at a live gig and preferably not on my own. I am dying to drink wine with my girlfriends and chat each other’s ears off. It can’t come soon enough. The acting world is beginning to open up. I have a FaceTime audition with a film director. It’s a particularly heated scene.