There are weekends that stay with you, not because everything went perfectly, but because everything almost didn’t. This past one was like that. It reminded me how easy it is to let the negative drown out the positive. I still wonder if that is a human thing or just a me thing, but either way it is a trap that is hard to avoid.
Saturday had all the makings of a brilliant day. I was in Brighton with my stall, ready to see familiar faces and meet new customers. The trouble was, so were ten thousand other people at the rugby final, the football, and another big event across town. Our fayre was quieter than a library at midnight and by the end of the day, after taxis and table fees, I had just about broken even.
And that is the hard bit about markets. From the outside they look like a cheerful Saturday pastime, but for many of us the small business is a second job, squeezed in around everything else. A five day week becomes six with late nights of making, packing and setting up. That is why they matter so much. Every chat, every leaflet, every sale keeps small businesses alive, which is why a slow day like Brighton really stings.
By 11am I wanted to pack up, crawl home, and wallow. But I didn’t. Being a small business owner means learning to play what I call the small business glad game. You hunt for the wins, however small. I chatted with wonderful friends, handed out heaps of leaflets, met new customers who I hope will return, and received four empty jars from a loyal regular. So while I went home with less money than I hoped, I didn’t go home empty.
Fast forward twenty four hours and I was teaching my son the same lesson. Sunday began with our monthly beach clean with Leave No Trace, followed by sandwiches on the sand, smugly wholesome and salty-haired. Then off we went to the school ceilidh in Lewes, dancing and giggling until our cheeks hurt.
And then came mud gate.
In the time it took me to fetch some orange squash, my youngest had vanished into the woods and found a bog. He reappeared covered in mud, walking in his socks, clutching trainers that looked like two giant chocolate brownies. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he begged to go home, embarrassed and convinced the day was ruined.
For a moment I considered it. But then I remembered the day before, when my own urge to leave early had almost won. If I had given in, I would have missed the good bits. I told him the worst thing we could do was go home, because then he would only remember the ceilidh as the day he cried in front of everyone.
So we struck a bargain. He would stay for two more songs if I took my shoes and socks off too. And so we danced barefoot, laughing harder than ever. By the end he admitted the second half had been even better than the first.
When we finally went home, we were tired and mud-splattered but proud of ourselves. Trainers were scrubbed, baths were run, the heating cranked up. We curled up together on the sofa, blankets pulled high, watching a film with that glow you only get from salvaging a day that could so easily have been lost.
It turns out running a small business is the best training for life’s muddy moments. You learn not to pack it in too soon, not to let disappointment decide the ending. You hold your nerve, stay present, and wait for the joy to arrive.
That is what Olive & Joyce is about too. My skincare is rooted in finding joy in the everyday, not chasing filtered perfection. A jar of cream cannot rescue your child’s trainers or fill a quiet market, but it can bring a pause in your day, a reminder to care for yourself, and a moment of gladness. Because life will always have muddy patches. The trick is to notice the good bits that come after.