Three Beautiful Things

1. A great tit in pinstripes flies into the ivy, flies out again. 2. I catch a speck of red in the garden, assume it's plastic litter from a broken toy. But it's a ladybird, stretching its wings. 3. We've been shifting around each other, in and out of the kitchen all afternoon, and now there is a curry, and for afters, warm cookies with ice cream sandwiched between.

1. Looking out over the view from Mount Ephraim across the town's bowl, I can see that we are a lot greener than we were before Easter. 2. I ask Nick if he wants to come with me -- and he does. 3. After an hour of laughter and joining-in-with-the-chorus presented by two thirds of The Gluten-Free Trio (plus guide dog), we head home across the Pantiles -- which looks particularly charming all lit up. We are cheerily relaxed and really ready to enjoy Friday.

1. The traffic is so bad that we are just meters behind the bus that passed us at the start of our walk. 2. She asks to be allowed to trim the doll's bangs, which are for now pinned against her felt forehead to set flat. I will probably say yes. 3. We go out to see what we can see in the sky -- we're rolling through some dusty space and there are more meteors than usual. We don't see any of the promised Lyrid shooting stars, but we do see plenty of satellites, and Arcturus is shining straight down our street.

1. Ripe blackberries in April -- just a handful, gleaming in a cardboard tray -- brought in by slow boat from the Mediterranean and put at the front of the fridge to be eaten by anyone who fancies one. 2. Slipping the skins off boiled beetroots -- some for Nana, some for us. 3. A few dozen stitches and her little face appears.

1. Oddly, the burnt corner of my toast with chocolate spread is so delicious that I am jolted out of the story I am reading at breakfast. 2. The taxi driver tells us that now his second son has a university place. 3. We decide we do not like this and drop it mid-show, mid-series.

1. Last day of the holidays, and I've woken very early. I summon up George Saunders' Pond in the Rain  and bob around with his Russians and their short stories before sinking back into sleep. 2. Like a bonfire spark and its afterglow, a yellow centipede returns to the darkness at the bottom of the compost heap. 3. In the hour before bed we let David Attenborough's nesting swallows and path laying mice yank our heart strings around.