The Mum Edit: Knowing Me, Knowing You

I moved to Walthamstow in the summer of the 2012 Olympics. I bought my first flat and – after years of renting in different areas of London, and never being anywhere longer than a couple of years – I was finally going to put down some roots. I had my own front door, which meant at age 32 I could stop using my parents’ house as my ‘proper’ address because my mail wouldn’t get subsumed by a towering hallway pile that spanned the correspondence of every rental resident in the building from the last decade. Sure, at that point my chosen area usually elicited the response: "Where? The end of the Victoria Line?", but it was my own flat! (Now that Walthamstow property prices have gone nuts I have been deemed savvy and forward thinking, but I assure you I am neither, it was simply where I could afford at the time.)

I was also looking forward to becoming part of a community and knowing my neighbours. (Also, knowing stuff about my neighbours. I grew up in a medium-sized town in Derbyshire and my life had been missing the drama/gossip of watching people going about their routines in plain sight. Yes, I am nosy.) My best friend moved into the spare room, so that was one local friend sorted, and then we gradually got to know the area and people nearby. By the time I knew when the good fish and chip shop held its annual summer hiatus, I was on nodding terms with a decent number of people. I considered myself part of things.

Cut to four years later: the best friend has moved out, my boyfriend-turned-husband has moved in and we have a six-month-old baby. It’s only now, during the long months of maternity leave, that I feel I am part of things. Partly because my child’s aversion to napping anywhere but in a moving pram means I’m covering many miles a day – Walthamstow Marshes, Walthamstow Village, the seemingly infinite number of Costas along the High Street, I haunt them all with my Bugaboo.

Like a classic nosy neighbour, I register and seize on any small change in the houses/people/routines of those along my route, before telling my husband all about it (people he has never spoken to, met, or seen) when he comes home from work. I am constantly looking for baby-friendly things to do and so I know about every playgroup, coffee morning and charity sale in a three-mile radius. And I will talk to anyone – although sleep deprivation prevents me from remembering who to or what about.