Friday, November 15, 2024

Same way, through the barriers and events.

1. We are both walking back the same way.

2. I kiss Nick and see him and his case through the barriers at the station. The small farewell reminds me of when we first met and could hardly bear to be apart.

3. She puts on her shoes and darts down the hill to see the launch of our town's Christmas shopping events. Later, we watch fireworks (and other people watching fireworks) from our front door. 

Thursday, November 14, 2024

Cyclamen, last leaf and new pencils.

1. I spot some pale flower buds on the cyclamen by the front door -- tight furled promises.

2. In the sunny park, I catch a few startling crimson leaves on almost bare branches. I've been reading O. Henry's The Last Leaf.

3. I really like handing out brand new shiny black and red pencils from my stationery stash.

Wednesday, November 13, 2024

Tired, boy birds and at eleven.

1. I am tired this morning and so feel completely justified in standing and staring at lichen.

2. Little birds in black and palest brown scuffle and scutter in a thorn tree like boys on the way to school.

3. I have re-wrapped the parkin, swept the crumbs from the table and put our coffee mugs in the sink. A message arrives from Anna to say that she, too, has had a piece with her elevenses.

Tuesday, November 12, 2024

Free plants, seasonal joys and apricots.

1. A plant in the front garden has thrown out rosettes of dark red leaves with aerial rootlets. I snip them off and bed them hopefully here and there.

2. Anna and I meet up to plant up her Christmas paperwhite bulbs and observe some seasonal joys as we remember Elspeth Thompson.

3. In the car, I'm holding a warm jar of dried apricots steeping in spiced brandy and wine -- ready in a fortnight if anyone is coming by. 

Monday, November 11, 2024

Baking, bin and empty shelf.

1. A pair of cherry cakes cooling on the worktop.

2. In the course of our clear-out, I find a box and realise I can tip the entire contents straight into the bin.

3. We have an empty shelf, which I'm sure will get filled soon -- but for now, there is nothing on it.

Friday, November 08, 2024

Later in the year, new book and decorations.

1. To pin my poppy on to my winter coat and step out into the cold. I feel like we've crossed the winter line.

2. My eldest comes to find me with the new and beautiful copy of Dune that he has just bought, all matte covers and clear type on thick, smooth pages. It's a bit of a contrast with my copy, which I threw out because its badly printed yellow wood pulp pages were falling off its broken spine.

3. The crunching of a silver ball among the icing on a fairy cake.

Thursday, November 07, 2024

Stop, distance and bacon sandwiches.

1. Google Assistant starts to tell me the news, and then the feed stops for a technical reason, and there's no clear way to re-start it.

2. It's quiet out today -- most of the people seem to be far away in the mist, out of reach.

3. Nick declares that we're having bacon sandwiches for lunch.

Same way, through the barriers and events.

1. We are both walking back the same way. 2. I kiss Nick and see him and his case through the barriers at the station. The small farewell re...