Wake up, seed and half asleep.

1. This morning, I am awake enough to eat my breakfast with my husband and wave him off as he walks out to the station.

2. Among the brown fibres and black crumbs, an oval of green is waking up.

3. The baby's eyes open, just a peep, and then close again.

The sun reveals all, the garden and magnolia.

1. The sun in the yard reveals secrets. Midges dancing in the morning. A thread of cobweb drifting skywards.

2. To mix up bright blue plant food in a watering can and glug it on to the pots and troughs (and the former fridge salad drawer) that are giving me so much pleasure.

3. Thick magnolia petals lie in drifts in the courtyard -- and there's more to come.

Seeds through the post, playwright and bird feeder.

1. Through the post comes a fat envelope of free seeds from the BBC's Dig In project. At the end of the day, when all my work is done, I start to plant them up.

2. I interview the playwright John Godber because one of his shows, Men of the World is coming to Trinity next month. He has a soft Yorkshire accent that I like very much indeed. When I transcribe my shorthand, I enjoy hearing it all over again in my head. "It's a very human activity, of humans re-enacting history for other humans to watch." His humans are pronounced  yewman.

3. There are two blue tits that share the feeder in the rowan tree. They are small enough to work at it together; or sometimes one sits on a nearby branch and waits patiently for the other to finish. I love the way they share, as well as their bright lime-rind yellows and sky blues.

Working day, what's going on here and mint.

1. How pleasing to interview a star of stage and screen while wearing pyjamas, and then to lie in the bath with one's husband until after 11am.

2. We look out of the waiting room window and see the police in the yard below -- they are shifting sacks and bundles out of a van. Very suspicious if you ask me.

3. Mint is burgeoning in the pot outside the front door, and I pick some to go with the courgettes.

Down the hill, smoked salmon sandwich and end of the series.

1. To walk down the hill in the middle of a spring day without wearing a coat; and to see magnolia buds kindly waiting for the cherry blossom to have its day.

2. A sandwich made of soft white bread with smoked salmon and cucumber.

3. We watch the last episode of Lark Rise, and leave the characters happy in their own particular ways. There is a new season coming, and their lives will be turned upside down again, but at least they'll have a contented winter.

So below, drying out and work harder.

1. Spring flowers are fallen stars.

2. crick-crack crick crick-crack. Pine cones are opening in the hot bright air.

3. A crow watches the collared doves. A mean boss on a warm Friday afternoon.

Lettuce, decorated and Dover sole.

1. Abel and Cole sent us a bag of oriental salad leaves. It looks rather as if someone on a country walk has pulled a handful of wild greenery and brought it home for me. The different textures (large and floppy horseradish tasting leaves; tender, juicy stems with peppery leaflets) are a refreshing variation on our usual supermarket Little Gem and bland Butterhead.

2. The painter asks me to look over the bedroom. "Is it all OK?" It's brighter and cleaner and the ceiling seems higher. The room has been enticed into the modern world by a diligent man and his roller.

3. To dust a couple of Dover sole fillets with with flour and cayenne pepper, and fry them for a couple of minutes until they are warm gold and heated through.

Pink sky, blackbird and cherry blossom.

1. To wake early in an unfamiliar room and see that the eastern sky is pink.

2. Our blackbird splashing in the puddle by the bins.

3. The cherry blossom is out in our street. Nick says: 'It was just like this when I bought the flat.'

Seedling, the week's work and waiting for me.

Happy Frog has made a list of eight positive things from her month. I'm thinking that I might try taking stock like this -- it would be a good cure for that awful feeling that life is passing you by.

1. The new Christmas tree has shed its seed case and is uncurling an alien fistful of green fingers.

2. To spend a morning pulling together my week's work. Doors open for me at a touch.

3. To come into a pub and find my husband waiting with his newspaper and a brandy.

A secret, crocuses and don't move.

1. The Common, with its bare trees and clear ground, seems barren at the end of winter. But it’s smiling in the sunshine as if it has a secret happiness.

2. Crocuses (baby mauve, egg-yolk yellow and whole milk white) have pushed their way through the khaki dead ground in the park. Today, they are the only pure bright colours in all creation (apart from the sky, I mean).

3. The financial advisor comes round, and I ask him a question that has been bothering me for months. He looks over a few pages, taps on his calculator and says that it's best to leave things as they are.

Cleaning, getting rid and mushrooms.

1. My mother scrubs the mould off our kitchen window frame.

2. Stuffing sacks of old clothes into the recycling bin. The hopper closes with a polite clang.

3. A pair of palm-sized portobello mushrooms in our vegetable box. Their dense flesh looks like real food. I imagine how a hunter-gather would have felt to find them on her patch. Perhaps she would have smiled and thought: "That's supper sorted."

Stay out of the kitchen, daff robbers and books out.

This post on a blog belonging to one of my editors (also a part-time football dad) put a smile on my face. I hope you'll like it, too. I think it would appeal particularly to the parents among you.

These are a few of my favourite 3BT posts for the week -- here's the longlist.

• Whitney is told that her blog has helped beat "the late-winter funk".
• Raymond Pert's pipes are whistling.
• Genny's octogenarian in-laws indulge in some skip-diving.
• Round Kelly's way, everyone's out for the first warm day of the year; and Penelope doesn't see the cows going out.
• Den captures a zebra-striped road.
• Plutarch observes some social unease.
• Becoming Human shares tantalising coffee shop story fragments. What can you tell an Inuit man about dressing for winter?
• Sprite shares the news that Susan's quit the job that was making her miserable -- good for Susan!
• What on earth are Erin's children baking?

1. I ask if he would like an apricot crumble for pudding tonight. "Let's have it later in the week. I don't want you spending too much time in the kitchen."

2.Daffodil buds. They look like bank robbers in green stocking masks.

3. I fill two crates with books for the charity shop. Stacked up, the books are the height of an eight year old child.

Cutting, off school and bread.

Yesterday was a day of lateness and not being able to get my head round things. I put the podcast up yesterday hours after I posted: I forgot what day of the week it is. So if you missed it, please go and have a listen. I now have a revolting cold, and feel very sorry for myself, so perhaps that explains it all.

1. I am chatting on the phone to Louise, and she says: "I've just noticed, that plant you gave me has flowered." That plant is a cutting from a pot plant she gave me. I now have three, but they've never bloomed for me.

2. In the pub, there are three children behind the bar -- they've come to work with mum because of the snow. "That'll be one fifty, love" she says to me. "One fifty, love," whispers the smallest child. They giggle, and she sends them all back upstairs.

3. I was late making the bread, so I have to cut it for supper within minutes of taking it out of the breadmaker. Hot air escapes from the crust and scalds my fingers. The kitchen smells of new bread.

Guilty pleasure, birch again and the homecoming.

This week I've been astonished to see the hit counter on the 3BT podcast creeping up -- thanks for listening, everyone.

I've added Outré and It's a Long Way Home to the Roll of Honour -- thank you James and Cathy.

Becoming Human and Whitney at Glimpses of Grace and Louisa Parry have all been enjoying the company of small people -- I just hope Whitney's little'un managed to get herself out of the hatbox. Plutarch has seen daffodils braving the frost. Raymond Pert has put away a burger 'the size of a buffalo's head'. Merope discovers Marks and Sparks and salt 'n' vinegar crisps. And Eyebee is taking pleasure in Shredded Wheat.

1. My aunt says: "Do you want to go to Hobbycraft?" as if she is suggesting a guilty pleasure to us.

2. More birch trees -- their top branches have been smeared by an artist's finger covered in burgundy pastel across a landscape of fawn and khaki.

3. I come home to Nick, and we hug each other so tightly. It was our first night apart since the wedding.

Round the parish, work fast and together.

Artist Amelia Critchlow has written a 3BT post over at 101 Birds -- we met while I was covering an exhibition here in Tunbridge Wells that includes her work. She's written about that, and the co-incidence surrounding our meeting.

1. I keep her company while she delivers parish Christmas cards. We enjoy the winter decay in other people's gardens, and good nosey at their front doors.

2. I get a piece of work that must be done quickly. It strikes me that it will pay for Christmas lunch.

3. I work late into the night while Nick cuts out his counters. When I come to bed, I apologise for having to work while he is home, but he says he likes being together silently.

Sport, delivery and the oak.

I'm quite fond of Eat The Seasons, a website that lists each week some seasonal foods. Today, they've suggested chestnuts, and the feature starts with what looks very much like a 3BT list -- I'm sure it's not, but I thought I'd share it with you.

1. One of the flowers on my white potted azalea has a flash of shocking pink in one petal. I wonder at the colour locked up in the plant's genes and the chance errors that allowed it to be expressed. Ain't life grand.

2. On his second visit of the day (he came yesterday, too,) I tell the delivery man that it's wedding presents. He smiles broadly.

3. I am taking enormous pleasure in the oak tree that I can see from the desk. It covers fully a quarter of my view, and has ponderously changed from green to yellow to ochre. I expect to wake up any day now and see an even more dramatic transformation.

A storm, the changes and a list of promises.

1. It is a day of wind and rain. A maelstrom of leaves twists at the crossroads. The common vibrates, as if the gale has got in underneath it. The land feels alive, wild and joyful.

2. In the afternoon the sun comes out. We stand on the top of Mount Ephraim and look over our town, checking for storm damage. It's all still there, but the lime trees are now leafless, and we look between their smallest branches at a shattered view.

3. We sit at the kitchen table and write our wedding vows.

Mint, cucumber and sole.

1. I pull the dead sunflower from the pot by the front door. The mint plant protests in the only way it can, by rolling clouds of its scent at me. New compost and a watering cheer it up a little -- but it still looks resentful.

2. The vines are finished, and so I root them out, only to find a stunted yellow cucumber has been growing un-noticed and (until now) un-loved.

3. Making up a dish of seasoned flour, coating some lemon sole fillets and frying them in some melted butter until the fish turns from translucent and marble cold to opaque and soft. The coating crisps a little and turns from raw white powder to a red-gold crust.

Picture of mint from Stock.xchng

From us both, polishing and underwater world.

Two bits of news:

• Mari has started a new 3BT blog, Three Beautiful Things of New England, so go over and give her an encouraging comment, and maybe a follow.
• I've opened an Amazon store to make it simple for people to buy books I mention. You pay the normal price for anything you buy, but I get a finder's fee from Amazon for every purchase made.

1. Two birthday cards lie open on the breakfast table while our pair of inky signatures dries.

2. Among the shredded leaves on the pavement and in the gutter, conkers gleam. It's like finding a piece of french-polished furniture in a junk shop.

3. Lying back and sinking my ears underwater in the bath.

Picture of conkers from Stock.xchng

Mousetails, lemon curd and violas.

1. The plant stallholder's daughter is looking carefully at the curled shoots of cyclamens. Our eyes meet through the dolly mixture and lipstick pinks, and I tell her: "We used to call them 'Mouse tails'."

2. Ladelling hot lemon curd into sterilised jars. It pours like new honey (our ancient household management book says that this is how you know it's ready; another recipe says that it will coat the back of the spoon).

3. Digging out the spent soil from the lettuce trough, adding new compost, soaking it well and planting up three little violas -- which I hope will cheer up the winter days to come. I wish I could set the trough up on the window sill so that people can look right into the flowers and see the sepia lines radiating out from the centres.

Picture of cyclamen from Stock.xchng