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.