May, deer and pointing.

1. The may blossom has been hanging heavy on the hawthorns for a few days, but I have been too polite to mention it before the actual month. It has a strong smell that is faintly fishy: not something I'd like indoors; but out on my walk I love to see the tiny rose-like blossoms and the tight white dots of the flowers to come.

2. There are a lot of deer droppings on the paths -- strange to think of so large an animal stepping between the parked cars, grazing on the cricket pitch then melting away into the woods when people start their commutes.

3. The man cleaning the glass between the sanctuary and the church café pauses to point us up the stairs to the polling station in the hall.

Cold drink, fan and slime.

1. In the back of the fridge, on this hot day, I have a huge mug of green tea.

2. Remembering that I have a USB fan tucked away.

3. There was a science fair today. I catch her mixing slime on her dressing table, but don't say a thing.

Genre fiction, weeds and film night.

1. It's difficult to dislike waking in the small hours when I can read myself back to sleep by sliding into  the soothing, well-worn grooves of genre fiction. This week's favourite is Julia Huni's Triana Moore, Space Janitor.

2. I do love the soft fern leaves and pink flowers of herb robert; and the sparky blue flowers of alkanet; and the way wall toadflax softens edges -- even if the RHS says they are all pernicious weeds. I only pull them out when they seem to be congesting the garden, or once they start looking leggy, mildewed and seedy. 

3. We disappear into the misty deserted world of the Russian classic Stalker (1979). It was made seven years before the Chernobyl disaster, and I'm struck by its prescience -- although it's pretty easy to guess how people might behave when presented with a forbidden zone that contains invisible danger; and it's not too much of a leap to use those guesses to fire up a narrative.

Houseplants, waiting for lunch and edges of fairyland.

1. A windowsill full of glossy houseplants.

2. I've had to wait for my lunch while we unload a grocery delivery. The shepherd's pie tastes even better reheated.

3. Just before sleeping, I go wandering on the edges of fairyland with the second Emily Wilde book.

Bluebells, vantage point and volcanoes.

1. The scent of bluebells rolls down the hill to meet us. 

2. From where we're eating our lunch in the holly scrub on top of the crags, we can see passers-by -- including a loud thumper on the railway -- but they can't see us.

3. To realise that now would be an okay time to introduce our eldest to a Werner Herzog documentary. We lie on the sofa watching Into the Inferno on Netflix. 

Spaniel, mocha and long lens.

1. A chaotic chocolate-brown spaniel with ears undulating soaks its belly running through a puddle among the rocks then races across the rough grass to the cricket pitch before making a circle back to the rocks..

2. Getting a mocha on my way home was the right thing to do.

3. The boys are hanging out of the window to photograph a distant verdegris roof dome, and a gull nesting on a chimney stack.

Earlier, sooner and nose to nose.

1. Nick calls upstairs. He has come home much earlier than expected, and he brings me a book -- Richard Ayoade's The Unfinished Harauld Hughes.

2. The surgeon reckons they can schedule it within the month, which is a lot sooner than we expected.

3. From half past eight to nine o'clock on most evenings we lie almost nose to nose just taking some time. She says of her day, 'It was boring when I was living through it; I don't know why you want to hear about it now.'

Mould, violet lawn and comfortable second.

1. During my walk, I find an intriguing buff-coloured spongy mass on a pile of wood chippings. I guess it's a fungus -- maybe a slime mould -- and I can see older dried out ones, splatted like cow pats. I make a note and look forward to finding out what it is when I have time to tumble down a rabbit hole.

2. In an unkempt garden, a lawn thick with violets.

3. We're down to two players passing £500s back and forth over the board. With my property portfolio there's a chance I could hold my own until the good luck (or bad luck) I need to win turns up -- but it's very late, and I'm all right to concede into a comfortable second.

Wisteria, last time and apple blossom.

1. The wisteria on the back wall has done particularly well this year -- the mauve flowers hang heavy and so does the sweetcorn scent in the brick cell of our back yard. When I brag about it, I am repaid with pictures of apple trees and rhododendrons and all other things in bloom. 

2. This might be the last time she wants me to push her on the swing.

3. To pull down a branch bearing apple blossom to catch the shy pink and white scent.

Brew-up, out of the oven and future dressing.

1. I stir the tea in the canister to get the right mix of black tea leaves and flower petals and orange peel and lift a spoonful into the infuser.

2. There is a general marvelling at the batter pudding Nick pulls out of the oven. He is grumbling quietly that the new oven runs at a cooler temperature than the old one because he has become a person with some expertise at cooking.

3. I start to pack. It feels rather like dressing a doll; imagining myself away and thinking what I might like to do and what I might wear to do it.

Jaybird, physio and collab.

1. I hear a cry like a child's -- but from the top of a tree. A jay with a beak full of grass wisps and blue flashes on her wings looks back at me. 

2. The physio asks gently about absolutely everything from dreams to diet to doorframes to trouser cuffs. Sitting on the bench, size 9 trainers dangling, he unfurls a little.

3. The lamb stew was made by me -- but Nick made the dumplings floating on the top.

Pink, brownies and Pleiades.

1. A single pink primrose flower among the pale yellows lighting up the under hedge.

2. We eat brownie in tiny pieces soaked with juice from defrosted raspberries.

3. With my binoculars, between the washing line and trellis, I stumble on the tiny pan-shape of the Pleiades.

Path, stars and wisteria.

1. The Common has dried out a lot since I was last out. There is a dusty path beaten smooth across the spot that is still rutted and ridged from when it was winter mud.

2. It's pretty late, but I'm going to sit outside and match the goings on in the sky to my star map. We've wheeled round since I last looked and there's an entirely different view. I'm only really out here because I'm responding to a prompt from Amy Bowers' Poetry Jam.

3. Even in the dark, I can tell the wisteria is about to bloom on its bare stems.

Magnolia, no coat and weeding.

1. The drifts of pink and white petals drying in the gutters and flattened on to the pavement suggest that the magnolia on the corner of Belgrove in bloom.

2. It is warm enough that I forget my coat and have to go back and buzz myself in again.

3. Putting my fingers among soft leaves and soil and guessing which are weeds and which came from the packet of wildflower seeds.

Acer, proof and orange/blue.

1. The little rags of budding acer leaves, each one pencilled round in red.

2. We go through a maths revision worksheet about areas of shapes. I still marvel at how the area of a trapezium could be a+b divided by two and then multiplied by the height. I think I missed the lesson where we covered the proof, because I remember being allowed to 'discover' pi with a piece of string at the start of circle theory; and cutting up paper to show how the square of the hypotenuse can be made to fit into the squares of the other two sides. 

3. The warm sunset colours on the horizon fade up to night, and in between you'd be hard pressed to say whether you were looking at orange sky or blue sky.

Jackdaws, hot cross buns and listening to music.

1. Jackdaws are nesting in a capped chimney that I can see from my desk. They hang on the brickwork and fold their blue-grey bodies into an opening the size of a playing card.

2. The tiny variations in the basic range hot cross buns from different supermarkets. 

3. Turn and turn about, waiting for bedtime, we listen to each other's songs, and end up with Lightning Seeds Pure on a loop.

End at the beginning, whistler and no pressure.

1. To start the day by finishing a book.

2. I'm sure we knew that the emergency kettle is a whistling one; but we'd forgotten since we last had it out, and it's a pleasant surprise to hear it calling from the stove top.

3. Sunday afternoon pause: no pressure to browse and buy.

Cold remedy, simultaneously and delivery.

1. Decongestants are a modern-day miracle.

2. As I wave her off, two things happen: our neighbour's daughter comes out of their front door; and a blue tit stops to investigate the tree in our front garden.

3. Watching a lot of builders in orange hi-vis and plumbers in matching T-shirts and a truck driver in green hi-vis negotiating the wheres and hows of a large delivery of boards and insulation.

Working coffee, dog violets and green tea.

1. Coffee with a few editor friends in the bright and airy auction house. The hour vanishes among a good brew and useful talk.

2. Suddenly, there are dog violets growing under the door step and between my herbs.

3. From among the washing up, the scent of the green tea I drank earlier.  

Reading material, another word world and on my way home.

1. Setting off on a train with some things to read and a bit of an adventure ahead.

2. I meet film editors, and script editors and all sorts of different people who tell me about their world, which as it turns out, has some similarities to mine. Occasionally trays of sushi and glasses of fizz appear at our elbows.  

3. Stepping out of a hot room into the cool night, when a light rain is falling. Time to process what I've heard.

Gorse, vacuuming and sprinkles.

1. Gorse is always in flower, as everyone who lives near heathland knows, but this week, on the sunny side at least, it's changing from green spiny thickets with the odd blossom to a grand show of solid yellow.

2. The way the dust and flick disappear into the vacuum cleaner.

3. On a whim, I drop bright coloured hundreds and thousands into his bowl of custard.

Yellow stars, mirror and bread dough.

1. I've had half an eye on the forsythia bush over the car park -- and now it's got yellow stars all over, with more to come no doubt.

2. I'm trying to explain why I thought of using a mirror to bounce the view from the window into a more convenient spot in the room. 'Like in The Lady of Shallot. She lives in a tower doing weaving and she's not allowed to look out of the window, except through a mirror. Only she sees Sir Lancelot and looks out of the window anyway and then she dies. It's very sad.' I slip him a copy of Tennyson's poem, with Charles Keeping's evocative pencil washy illos. The view from the window is forgotten.

3. I teach her how to knead her pizza dough, and explain that it helped me to manage my angry feelings during lockdown. 

'But who were you angry with? You were just with us all the time!'

First day of spring, slipping out and comedy.

1. I'm mostly at my desk today -- but with the window cracked open, I can see the springtime light, and smell the sunlit air.

2. We slip out for a coffee and nosey in the bookshop -- I'm just pleased to have Nick all to myself.

3. A friend and I go along to a showcase for a comedy course we couldn't attend, and it's glorious -- a couple of hours of funny stories, word play and personal revelations.

Merino wool, birdsong and hitting save.

1. This morning, she's wearing a borrowed merino wool cardigan for a dress-up day. It's warmer and softer than her usual jumper.

2. The sound of birdsong through my open window.

3. I hit save on the last of many, many web pages. 

Stray, curry and sort of a win.

1. I let myself stray for a short while into the book I'm reading, and it resets my equilibrium.

2. 'I'll miss my goat curry,' says Nick cleaning out the pan, 'even though I've been eating it solidly for three days.'

3. The aim of role playing games is not to beat anyone, or to outwit them; but there are those moments when the games master hears your choice of action and says something like, 'Right... Well that's not a bad thing to do... But that's it for tonight.' And you feel as a player that you've maybe surprised them, and led them somewhere unexpected, which creatively, is sort of a win.

Orange, violet and stars in their places.

1. These really are the last of the blood oranges -- they are not as sharp and tasty, and the skins don't come away easily. I cut it into boats and strip the flesh with my teeth.

2. There's a purple dog violet coming up among the rags of the snowdrop bells.

3. While doing some of the bins, I look up. After a day of clouds, there are stars all in their allotted places. Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, Saiph and Rigel. Sirius, Procyon and Mars in Gemini. Then Jupiter in Taurus and Capella straight above.

Early, arrival and goat curry.

1. I'm up before everyone else and eating pancakes.

2. My brother, with hair clipped short, comes to take his nephew out to lunch.

3. The meat Nick has in marinade for tonight's curry scents the whole kitchen every time we open the fridge.

Bricks, hot cross buns and crocuses.

1. Where there was a window, there is now a door. Where there was a door, there is now a window. Today the builder is cleaning up, darkening his new brickwork with a wet brush.

2. At coffee time -- the smell of hot cross buns.

3. Under the icy rain, crocuses have fallen to purple mush. When I lift them, there's the scent of saffron.

Snail, blue flower and sleet.

1. Coming down the cobbles, I step over a black and yellow striped snail. I take it with me up to the common where there should be more soft green plants, and more decaying leaves for it to live among.

2. Alkanet plants on the common -- under the bristly leaves a single eye-blue flower.

3. We've had some days of soft, mild weather. But at lunchtime, the light changed as the sky clouded over. Now I look up to the window in response to a soft rushing sound -- icy pellets of sleet are rolling down the slates. March weather is never quite what you expected.

Gardening, macaroni cheese and Russian doll.

1. Plant catalogue -- imagining a parcel of earthy roots and how container-sized dahlias would fit in my garden.

2. The scent of the children's macaroni cheese, and just a little taste from the pan on the side.

3. The squeak of a Russian doll opening, which makes us both shudder, but we do it again and again until all the glossy dolls are out; and then again and again until they are in. 

Light reading, pie and leaky milk.

1. In the small hours, oppressed by the dark and by thoughts of what is to come, I am profoundly grateful to all authors of lightweight fiction.

2. She comes home from school with a little food tech pie -- summer fruit gleaming like jewels through a window in her handmade pastry.

3. The bottle of milk is leaking where the lid has failed, but I'm loath to hand it back as we need it for breakfast. 'Give it here,' says the delivery driver. 'I'll scan it and then you can have it for free. There's been a lot of leaks with this type of bottle.' 

Sunday shopping, Caesar salad and stew.

1. In the second part of Sunday afternoon, when the shop assistants are telling us to have a good evening, the sun is low and dusty and the upper floor of the coffee shop is so quiet that it feels like just the two of us.

2. I have been pleading for input into the week's meal plan, and at last she says casually that she would like a Caesar salad. Does she know what that is? Not sure, but a Caesar salad kit goes into my shopping order. 

3. Nick has braised some pork and vegetables, following a recipe from Fuchsia Dunlop's Every Grain of Rice. It's delicious and popular with the children. 'How did you cook these potatoes? They are the ultimate comfort food,' our son marvels. After the children have left the table, Nick and I agree that it's rather like an Irish stew. We are pleased to have some leftovers for next day lunch.

Puzzles, pursuit and newspaper game.

1. As I'm sitting up in bed waiting to wake up and doing my morning puzzles, someone with a lot of answers joins me.

2. Two blue tits chasing each other round the branches of a bare oak tree in the early spring sunshine.

3. Nick and I make time for fun, and finish our game of Deadline.

Local knowledge, bakery and eyes on.

1. The taxi driver zigs up back ways and zags down side streets and jinks into traffic queues to get us across town in time for our appointment.

2. Warm paper cups and crinkly paper bags.

3. Standing in my slippers at the top of the car pack, I get eyes on Mercury hanging under Venus to the west.

All together, space junk and laugh.

1. This morning, all four of us lie in bed, crammed straight like sardines laid out in a tin.

2. I can't see it today, but thanks to my star map, I know that a specific piece of space junk, Cosmos 928 r, which is a Russian rocket body launched a couple of weeks after I was born, is going by, and that it will be back again tomorrow night.

3. Bettany turns up a gentle joke about my parenting that makes me cringe and then laugh until I'm breathless out of sheer embarrassment and recognition.

Among the clouds, cobwebs and umbel.

1. I'm dipping in and out of foggy pockets. One moment, the world is grey and secretive between layers of mist; the next it's sunshine and blue sky.

2. Two icy sheets of cobweb hang aglow in the darkest part of the woods.

3. A dried umbel fuzzed with frost.

Checking the crocuses, secluded and second batch.

1. We take time to walk round and check out the crocuses at the bottom of the park, and they are spectacular, transforming the drab winter ground with their clean pale colours.

2. On the fourth try -- now I'm sitting quietly, properly fed and secluded away from interruptions -- I complete the Sunday puzzle.

3. The first-batch Welsh cakes are a cindery mess, and I can only be grateful they didn't set off the smoke alarm. The second batch is much better.

Guess, greens and going again.

1. Our neighbour sees the mud spatters drying on my over trousers and says, 'You've been on the common, haven't you.'

2. Snipping parsley into my soup.

3. We find that we are enjoying our stories so much that we need a third round of drinks.

Posy, supper and planets.

1. Through the rain over the road outside the florist, a posy of bright blue and pink flowers.

2. With our supper, pale pink wine in crystal glasses. Sound of the rain outside.

3. Since sunset, we've been glancing outside between tasks and messaging back and forth up and down the house because we hope to see the parade of planets. Mercury and Saturn, in our sky for just a short while after sunset, are hidden behind a bank of cloud; and Neptune is too distant and mysterious for anyone to see with their own eyes; but Jupiter, Mars and Venus are there for us.

Presents, kitchen flowers and critique of capitalism.

1. I slide birthday presents for Nick into the children's desk drawers. 

2. The tulips I gave her last week are still giving joy. At home, the last lot of supermarket daffodils are still bright and yellow and cheerfully brave.

3. Tim and I have a nice little Monopoly ecosystem: he has eaten the other players and owns everything except for six well developed properties of mine. He lands on them just often enough that I can survive another turn around the board. I feel constantly off balance, though, and I'm only really coping because of some lucky rolls, a few turns in jail so I don't have to land on his properties, and some helpful chance cards. We end with a draw, because it's getting very late.

See, spa and blank pages.

1. While looking for something else in the back of the garden, I finally see that a pot of crocuses has put purple spikes through the compost.

2. When I come down, the sitting room is transformed to shut out the world, with candle light and rolled towels and a spa crate so we can sit wearing face masks and watch relaxing television.

3. New notebook.

In and out, cool skid and peppercorns.

1. Love to catch sight of our children running in and out of the soft play frame.

2. He falls to his knees in a slide across the floor to express his displeasure at the wrong kind of sweet. Once his mum has calmed  him down, I tell him he did a cool footballer skid, and he smiles slyly.

3. Peppercorns fall and bounce as I fill the grinder. I think there must be a better sort of mill that is easier to fill, but then I remember this one was a wedding present, and that from his highchair Alec used to call it Bub and imagine it on adventures with a jar of Maldon crystals, named Salt.

Not disappointing, night park and that winter flowering thing.

1. Apparently, the disappointing biscuits are not disappointing to the menfolk. 

2. The shadows of children in the night park. A late run-out that might make bed and sleep more enticing.

3. The cold air of the whole dark street is perfumed by that winter flowering thing a few doors down from us.

Still cake, plate and corrective powers.

1. There is still some homemade cake in the tin.

2. He is very tall, with a voice that sometimes makes me think a visitor has come to the house, but he is still quite pleased to be given a cold collation plate.

3. During the course of our game, I zap a neo-nazi with my emotion control power to make him feel embarrassed. He starts crying, gives us plenty of information, and then walks off to start a new life with better choices.

Still early, snowdrops and Outnumbered.

1. I've already been in a taxi and had an MRI, and it is still so early that no-one is up at home, so I stop in the park cafe to drink coffee, eat a shortbread and read an Edith Wharton ghost story.

2. Nick wonders about the little white flowers outside the back door. They're snowdrops, and they mean spring will soon be here. Earlier I saw a planting of giant snowdrops, cyclamen and hellebores at the gates of Dunorlan -- all good friends when the rest of the park looks like it has been left outside all winter and then sat on.

3. Bettany has been asking about Outnumbered, which originally broadcast before she was born. We watch an episode (me through my fingers because well observed sitcoms about family life are just a bit too close to home; and her round her phone, occasionally laughing or asking a question).

Beyond the barriers, going home and half term.

1. At the station, a friendly face waiting beyond the ticket barriers.

2. I walk on to the platform in time to see the destination on the front of the train just arriving: it's on its way to Tunbridge Wells.

3. Our lovely child -- just a little bad tempered -- is home for half term.

Fruit bowl, plans and resonate.

1. I come down to a fruit bowl full of bright new oranges and apples -- veg box arrived while I was sleeping.

2. She asks for a hug so she can lie next to me and tell me all about her plans for own clothes day.

3. The Folk Show is particularly good this evening. Most of the tracks seem to speak right to us, and for an hour then show holds our attention so that we listen, rather than seeking other things to do while it plays.

Jam, an hour later and gothic.

1. My mother brings us two jars of blackcurrant jam -- perfect timing, because it's hot cross bun season.

2. When I look up, it's an hour later and I'm 1,000 words in.

3. To marvel at the set before the production starts. This is Dracula -- so of course there are ruins and high windows and disconcerting stairways.

Clean-up, remembering and winning at chess.

1. Brushing mud off my waterproofs -- much easier to clean them dry than wet.

2. We've been throwing out some old school books. I find Nick sitting on the floor among the recycling reminiscing over photos the teacher has stuck in among the worksheets.

3. I win at chess against my son -- but only because he helps me.

Questions, chocolate mousse and steady rain.

1. As we make pudding for the evening, she is still asking questions about The Sound of Music. I've found a playlist and the songs are streaming straight into the kitchen.

2. Dipping spoons through the bubbly surfaces of our chocolate mousses.

3. Out there in the dark, the sound of steady rain. This is my best kind of rain: steady, and not happening where I am.

Obscure, reminiscing and own suppers.

1. The satisfaction of finding a nice obscure news story that not many other people are talking about.

2. The little glint in Nick's eye as he talks about the young men behind the names on the honours boards at Alec's school.

3. From the empty containers in the sink, we can see that the children have done as we asked and got their own suppers out of the freezer.

Disposal, winter scent and start again.

1. I hand over three broken laptops for recycling and walk home with nothing in my bag.

2. In our street somewhere, there is a winter-flowering thing that keeps catching my attention with its scent.

3. An embroidery project -- a pair of gloves -- has been waiting resentfully in the corner for more than a month. I take it up from where I left off. But I can't love the way it looks, and don't think I can replicate it on the second glove. I unpick what I've just done. I try a different approach that should be easier to replicate. Still not happy. I unpick the lot, put the threads in the bin and begin again with a new colour and a new design.

Drop-off, straight home and resting.

1. As we get closer to the school, we find ourselves walking into a stream of bigger boys heading out to buy their break snack. I feel him shift beside me like a fish twisting out of my hands, and I tell him to have a good morning and he swims away into the dark cool water.

2. I said I wanted to go straight home after my appointment, but I'm feeling better with every step in the before-spring sunshine, and I'm quietly pleased when Nick wonders if I want coffee out.

3. When he gets home, he joins me resting in bed for the afternoon. Both of us waiting to recover.

Magazines, sunlight and braised pork.

1. Some magazines, and a quiet hour in which to read them.

2. Following the sunlight around the house -- looking for the brightest, warmest spots.

3. We finally get to eat the pork that's been cooking slowly for most of day in a broth with star anise, ginger and cinnamon. It is very tender and delicious.

Understands, cheese shop and book shop.

1. My heart cracks a little when something he says suggests the reason he understands our situation is because he's experienced something similar himself. 

2. Across the street, Nick catches the eye of the man in the cheese shop, and within seconds we're crossing through the traffic.

3. The words, 'I just want to pop into Waterstones for three minutes.'

Citrus, frosted leaves and prawn crackers.

1. Blood oranges and satsumas -- bright citrus colours leading us through the year's darkest days.

2. In the corner on the field, even on this wet morning, a drift of frosted leaves.

3. At supper, someone wonders if prawn crackers actually include prawns. I say that I've seen Lizqi making them in one of her many videos, and she definitely chopped prawns finely and mixed them with the dough that eventually became prawn crackers. Nick says we should watch her later to mark the lunar new year. He selects one that seems appropriate -- Lizqi marking Year of the Ox with crafts and tasty food made from her own produce. It's the one with prawn crackers.

Awake, potato cake and done.

1. To wake of my own accord in the dark not long before the alarm.

2. Nick's potato cake today is a thing of beauty -- warm inside, with a crisp brown crust, ready and waiting to be eaten with a plateful of mince and kale.

3. I really like meeting my deadline well before the end of the day.

Plain biscuits, that's what love is like and no regrets.

1. With my mug of tea, a couple of plain coconut biscuits stamped with NICE and sparkled with sugar grains.

2. I try to explain it by saying that if Daddy declared he was the chosen one and surrounded himself with an unstable cult, I'd probably be very cross because our values had become so different. But also, if Daddy then married a princess who was not me, I would still be deeply hurt. My child is not convinced, as usual -- but I'm sure all will become clear in due course.

3. It was probably fine to have a third cup of coffee, as I'm very much ready to sleep.

Found, retrieval and this drama.

1. While reorganising, I find a tent, a magazine I have not yet read, a puzzle book, a space on the floor.

2. I brought the geraniums indoors too late and had to prune the frost scorched stems. Today, when I glance at their corner in the kitchen, I see they've put out some small bright green leaves.

3. A tense moment far away in space and time on the planet Arrakis -- in front of the TV right here, our fingers linked tight.

Arum, kiwi and tea.

1. Shoots of wild arum, glossy and stiff as patent leather, force their way through the beige drifts of last year's leaves.

2. It's a particularly good kiwi fruit, and the pieces disappear as fast as I can cut them.

3. Towards the end of the afternoon, a mug of tea and a biscuit appear at my elbow.

Lie in, writing prompt and lunch tray.

1. Both children are off sick, so we all have a lie-in, warm in the dark, and don't get up until full daylight.

2. I work to a writing prompt -- first time in ages.

3. On my lunch tray, blood orange slices and chocolate biscuits.

Gorse, more work and making a character.

1. Gorse blooms all year round, so to see the blossoms is nothing special -- but the thing is, the yellow pea-pod flowers are a welcome dot of brightness amid the dripping greys and muddy browns of a wet week in January.

2. Just when it's needed, a request for a quick chat about some more work.

3. To sit around a table making characters and back stories for a new game. I drift in and out of the conversations, thinking and chasing information rabbits in search of the perfect narrative details to match my random stats.

Reset, company and jazzies.

1. After the morning rush, I settle in with a book, aiming for a quick reset.

2. My son comes looking for a chat and some reassurance. Then my daughter joins us, sucking on a box of pineapple juice.

3. To add a few jazzies to a little rosette of whipped cream.

Drift, cutting fruit and clear floor.

1. We don't have much on, and I am very tired after a day with friends. I spend the time drifting between books and podcasts.

2. The best thing to do for pre-food-tech nerves is to give her space to practise cutting apples and kiwi fruit.

3. The repair in our bedroom is done and we can finally tidy. The meter square of clear floor seems so luxurious. Hedonic adaptation will soon smooth it into ordinary, so we'll enjoy it while we can.

A good evening, disposal and can't see.

1. While I wait in line for the post office counter, the customers at the head of the queue for the shop fill a bag with vapes and vodka and chocolate, commiserating all the while with the assistant about bad wisdom teeth and the long wait for an NHS dentist.

2. It costs almost £4 in postage, but I am very pleased to dispatch a large parcel of well worn tights back to the manufacturer for recycling.

3. Cold at the open back door, I peer into the blue-green sky trying to see what Nick can see -- a fingertip width from Venus, Saturn should be visible. It takes a while and I have to be patient, but eventually the distant planet resolves.

Drape, daisy and beetroots.

1. A milky fog covers the town, tastefully draping the buildings that block our view of the horizon.

2. The little daisy in the awkward spot by the table has put out a defiant January flower.

3. Slipping boiled beetroots out of their skins.

All of the ice, swapping tasks and job done.

1. Here, the ground is frozen into earthy ridges that crumble under my boots; there, I crunch across leftover snow; here again my steps break a crust of ice over a slurry of mud.

2. I roll sausages on to a baking tray while Nick checks the figures I have given HMRC.

3. Saving a copy of my completed tax return, and setting a reminder to pay the bill on Friday. I'm always very happy to get that job done for the year.

Slipping through, forbidden and a really new library book.

1. My eyes haven't woken up yet, but Bettany needs help putting in her earrings. The moment (times two) when the post slips through.

2. She's rather too pleased that her lip balm tube might easily be mistaken for a forbidden lip gloss.

3. I realise that my library book is brand new. 

Perfect morning, treacle tart and just one more chapter.

1. I've had a good lie in, done an hour of work, and now it's time for coffee.

2. Grating lemon rind into a pan of warming golden syrup -- the perfume fills the kitchen.

3. I find myself reading 'just one more chapter' until there is no book left.

Last of the cheese, supper and almanac.

1. One of those January treats -- making a lunch of the last of the Christmas cheese (although it's not the last as we didn't finish it, so we'll have another cheese lunch soon).

2. Up the stairs comes the smell of the veg chilli Nick is making for our supper.

3. Waiting for me at bedtime is Rosen's Almanac, which each day offers a brief consideration of the words and phrases people use in their private lives.

Library, getting warm and a quick loop to see the snow.

1. As I walk in, four librarians startle like a flock of crows, all hoping they can help. 

2. We turn into a coffee shop for comforting milky drinks and teaspoons of cake. Despite the sleet and the dark, we are still a little overheated by the time we get home.

3. After supper, we make a quick loop of the neighbourhood, with wet flakes striking our faces, to see the snow's best effort at settling.

Stars, reading aloud and distracted.

1. Our last few gingerbread stars are still crisp and good; still tasting of the butter we measured and melted and mixed.

2. I read aloud from his book until my voice cracks, my mind partly on what makes this narrative unwelcoming and hard work, and partly on the story of rats swarming a post-apoc Moscow subway in which ailing, fearful survivors form and break alliances across the dark between the stations.

3. We argue back and forth about important matters such as whether an omnipotent god could create a stone too heavy for him to lift; and whether by repeatedly halving the distance between two object you can ensure they never touch. Another twenty minutes of distraction.

Empty, easy win and wait for it.

1. The boringness of January: the markless calendar; the undecorated spaces in our house; the protein-themed special offers in the supermarket flyer. 

2. Quickly setting a room to rights -- putting rubbish in the bin, folding a hoody, stacking books. Easy win.

3. In a room lit only by the glowing television, we cling to each other, anticipating Green Noah walking.

Straight to coffee, rain walk and for the post.

1. We woke up so late that we don't bother with breakfast tea, but go straight to coffee.

2. We return from our rain walk with feet wet from puddles that we could not walk around.

3. My daughter hands me a pair of thank-you letters written on her new notepaper.