Tarry, rolling back and one last taste.

1. Much that I would like to sit and visit for longer packed in with red and crimson cushions and blankets, lit by a bright window and drinking good coffee, eating snacks and hearing news and wise council, I have to go back to work. But I am delayed in the hall (as usual) by a print of the garden of Eden. It's a rare one, I discover, because the set was lost in the Great Fire of London in 1666.

2. I drop fistfuls of dice into my pockets, ready for this evening's game -- we've had a long health break to overcome sickness and injury, but as soon as we could, we got back to the table.

3. Like hobbits, even though we are comfortably full, we are taking just one last taste of our favourites.

Straight back in, persimmons and squabble.

1. In the small hours, I finish the e-book I've borrowed from the library and change it for the next one in the series.

2. We finish the persimmons, which are almost glowing they are so ripe and juicy.

3. The sound of my children squabbling gently over a game.

Wet Sunday, resting and re-do.

1. We wake to the sound of heavy rain -- just right for a simple Sunday.

2. I put my dough in a bowl to rest, and take a quiet half-hour myself, sitting in bed listening to a radio show.

3. Needle goes in, needle comes out. Re-doing everything I unpicked last night.

Cistern, club and go.

1. We've got water of some kind -- the sound of the loo cistern filling is pretty good to hear this morning.

2. Susan has invited to us a concert in her London club. It's glorious, with high ceilings, a vast marble staircase and ornate tiling and stately, lumbering old-fashioned furniture. Past members look down on us from larger-than-life formal portraits -- some do seem to be challenging our presence, but others seem more benign. 

3. A passing French man tells us that we should walk past the no entry sign and look at the pictures if that's what we want to do.

Consolation, Effra and icing.

1. I flee Tunbridge Wells and its water woes for a day of wandering London with my aunt. A bit of Turner, a bit of Constable and some miscellaneous pre-Raphaelites. Turner's gift to the nation truly does give me a break from the treadmill cares of carrying bottled water and kettles and permanently feeling slightly grubby.

2. We come past the Isle of Effra with its bronze loo sculptures, which we're told mark the nearby Royal Doulton ceramics works, but could just as well nod to the River Effra's time as a sewer.

3. There are concerns about the whiteness and the quantity of butter icing. I walk away and leave the pastry chef to her work. When I come back, things are much more cheerful.

Fairly Christmassy, queue jumpers and advent calendar.

1. For the last few weeks, polling company YouGov has been wondering how Christmassy I feel. Today, I can answer honestly that I'm now feeling fairly Christmassy.

2. Because we are on foot, we can walk past all the cars to the front of the water queue. But then we have to carry all our bottles home again.

3. We have an advent calendar on the computer to play with this evening, with tiny low-stakes games and little surprises. 

Rainwater, heave and tiramisu.

1. The softness of rainwater -- unthinking I lather my hands with the usual amount of soap, and then find I can't rinse it off.

2. I dive into the cupboard we call Narnia and half-stifled by garment bags and suitcases, I heave and pull and drag the early decorations out into the house.

3. Bettany and I wait a little after supper before eating our pudding -- in fact, we wait until she's got ready for bed. It makes our bowls of tiramisu seem... I don't know, sort of festive, luxe and maybe slightly illicit.