Send later, sift and fair play.

1. What I really like is coming to my desk and seeing that the email I set last night to fire off at 8am has gone on its way, efficiently taking a task to the recipient. 

2. I find the four stories I'm going to use within minutes of starting my weekly scan of the news. To luxuriate in sifting through my sources without a vague feeling of panic that I might not find anything suitable.

3. There was some bad feeling because I listened to I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue with the younger child but not the older. And so to be fair I listen to the episode a second time. I miss less of it because fewer of the jokes need explaining.

Dachshund, return and late supper.

1. A soft jingle of bells. I cross paths with an older woman walking a wiry dachshund with milky eyes, chatting and encouraging as she goes. 

2. The children come tumbling in with bags and a rucksack and a suitcase and fruit and flowers. The weekend's heavy peace is gone, but Grandpa assures me from the doorway that they've said thank you nicely, and that they've been well behaved. 

3. He slept right through supper, but now we've settled into the evening with nail polish and a comedy on the radio, we can smell the curry that he is heating for himself down in the kitchen.

To myself, fly and curry paste.

1. Today I have Nick completely to myself.

2. A fly in plates of blue-green armour sips a drop of water from the washing line, and I am there to watch.

3. Very roughly chopped onions, ginger, chilli go into the blender with heaped spoonfuls of spices, plus a little oil -- and a curry paste comes out.

Invented recipe, gone to seed and co-working.

1. When I come down, she is making pancakes to an invented recipe.

2. I let the parsley go to seed. I regret the drooping bitter leaves that are no use for salads; but I do like to see hoverflies hanging in the air and darting about the green umbels.

3. Quite casually, almost in passing, I find myself on a Zoom co-working call. The sense that others are working too seems so soothing and enticing that I slip into my task, stay immersed, even when I come to a difficulty. I'm glad I took this risk.

Watermelon, condensed milk and dark red.

1. When I lift the watermelon out of the supermarket delivery crate, the rind gives unexpectedly. As usual with rejected produce, we're given a refund and told to keep it. When I cut it open and the flesh is soft and running with juice, its texture ruined. But there is no sign of rot and no taste of fermentation. So I put it through the food processor, strain 2L of bright red juice into a jug and idly look up watermelon cocktails. I make a granita, too, and the rest of the day is governed by hourly alarms calling on me to take it out of the freezer and fork the ice crystals into the middle. Meanwhile, the wasps enjoy scraping out the shells on the compost heap.

2. Nick shows me how to punch a hole in a condensed milk can. 'Oh!' says our son, 'You need a second hole so that air can get in, otherwise it won't pour.'

3. She brings a bottle of wine, and tall stems of matching deep red gladioli. We share the wine in paper cups and compare notes on the places where our caring responsibilities touch. As I walk home in the dusk, I am lightened.

Fuss, cherry juice and fiver.

1. A woman coming down the street smiles to see us fussing over our tired and crumpled daughter as she leaves the house on the last day of term.

2. I drink the last of the cherry juice before anyone else gets to it.

3. I save myself some time by sending him a set of pictures for cropping and resizing. The task (and the fiver) please him very much.

Last night's rain, first blackberries and chamomile.

1. All across the common, ponds and ditches are full from last night's rain. Everything green is washed, the dust is laid and the earth steams in the sun rays falling between the branches.

2. The first few blackberries -- the ones on the end of the clusters -- are ready to pick and eat. I like this early time: there are so few ripe that there is no obligation to pick enough for a crumble.

3. I stop to see the chamomile on the lower cricket pitch. The white daisy stars are welcome now that Bellis perennis has finished for the year.