Mathematical cauliflower, it's raining leads and the puzzles.

1. The Able and Cole box contains a mathematical cauliflower. I forgot what a romanesco is, and had in my head that we were going to receive a lettuce, so it was a joy to part the leaves and find lime green turrets and spirals. Nick came home and swiftly named it "Mandelbroccoli."

2. I'm in a panic as I don't have very much to put on my action points form for tomorrow's signing on. Then I spot a sign board asking for office help in town. When I get home I find an email from a friend saying she knows an editor who might have something; and a tweet with another lead. I'm so lucky to have all these people on the look-out for me.

3. We reach for the television, but can't settle. "Do you want to do something else instead?" We curl up on the sofa and collaborate over Professor Layton's puzzles on my pink Nintendo DS. Just as we are settling in, the phone rings. Nick's boss wants clarification of the conundrum about moving horses that he challenged her with earlier.

Picture by me. Sorry about the quality: the photography genes were assigned elsewhere among my siblings.

Hair, luck and preparation.

I got some super good news yesterday: I've placed a 100-word story in GW Thomas' Flashshot. It'll appear on October 10. If horror, sci fi and fantasy are your passion, but you don't have much time, subscribe (for free) and get a daily story sent to your inbox.

1. Louise the hairdresser comes to show me what she's got in mind for my wedding day. She bundles me up in heated rollers, which puts Shirley Temple curls in my dead-straight hair. There is just time to boing one before she brushes them out again. Once it's done, she shows me in the mirror how she has arranged it to show off the colour variations caused by the sun.

2. I get a call from the Bureau de Change. The envelope of 100 euros that I lost on Thursday while shopping has been handed in. I am jaw-droppingly fortunate.

3. We clear out my old bedroom so I can sleep there the night before the wedding, and get ready in the morning.

Picture by Stock.xchng

You're out, planters and dinner.

1. We are finally given an official date for the closing of the subs' desk -- very sad, but huge relief. It'll be good to have the summer off -- there's not much work going at the moment, so I'm not expecting to find anything soon.

2. My mother-in-law has so much on her plate; but she still found the energy to bring by bus a couple of plastic troughs for me to plant up with tomatoes and lettuces.

3. I make Nick a round of sandwiches when he comes back from hospital visiting; but he likes the look of the greens, mince and potatoes on my plate. There's some left in the pot; and extra potatoes too so I can indulge him with no resentment. We'll save the sandwiches for tomorrow's lunch.

A change of clothes, it is real and luck for dinner.

1. At the last minute, I change my mind and tuck a dress into my weekend bag.

2. The train is crowded and we have to sit apart for the whole journey. I reach across the aisle and pat Nick's arm to make sure we really are together and we really are going away to the seaside.

3. I hadn't expected to walk in and get a table at The Little Bistro -- it has just 16 seats. I'm so glad we did. An ancient Australian bluesman came in and played for us -- 'This is a little song I wrote a long time ago about...' The whisper went from table to table that he is very famous and 'a friend of the family'. We got to try a perfect pan-fried slip -- a delicate variety of sole that is only available on the Kent coast for a few weeks a year. And lamb from Romney Marsh, slow-cooked into tender shreds and sitting in a pool of burgundy gravy.

Macarons, more for your money and take a bow.

Mr London Street dropped me a line saying that his latest entry Friday Night's Alright for Fighting was three beautiful things about his weekend. It doesn't have the requisite numbering; or the x, y and z title format; but it made me laugh, so I thought some of you might appreciate it, too.

1. Two macarons from the market stall. 'Will we have them with our tea?' Nick wants to know.
'No, we're having them now,' I say.

2. I do my sums and pick out two books on life in the Arctic,* regretfully leaving a third (the diaries of a whaler's wife**). I take them to the counter and offer up my £15. The lady says: 'They're £2 each -- we've got a sale on.' I snatch up the third book and feel very lucky indeed.***

3. At the end of the baseball game, the Japanese and Korean players bow to each other.

*Don't ask -- it's one of those puzzling obsessions that sometimes grab one.
** It's a Moby Dick thing.
***There was a copy of Christian the Lion, which I would have liked, but because I know the story of the two Australian backpackers who bought a lion cub in Harrods, I left it for someone else.

Your wish is my command, space and desert.

I've been getting such lovely messages and comments lately -- thank you very much, everyone.

1. 'Crate of apple juice' was written on my to-do list. I wasn't looking forward to walking down in the storm to order a delivery from the farmers' market. I come home from meeting friends for breakfast to find a clanking box of 12 bottles in the hall. 'Funny story,' explains stay-at-home-Nick. 'The apple juice man brought it round. He broke down on the way to the market, and decided to give it up as a bad job. But he didn't want you to miss out on your juice.'

2. The living room is full of men hooting at football. I spread myself and my books and magazines across the bedroom.

3. The chocolate pudding has fluffed up in the oven. We divide it into two blue and white striped bowls, and pour cool, sweet cream on it.

Pavement stars, clouds and up the hill.

John Naish recommends keeping a journal similar to this as a good way to survive mass anxiety: How to survive the global panic. He calls me 'an expert gratitude spotter'.

1. Stars are pressed into the pavement in all the flamey reds and golds of autumn.

2. Rolls of fat grey cloud cover the sky. The low late sun tints the eastern bellies with grubby orange.

3. I am passing the bus stop just as the bus pulls in, and get a lift up the hill.

Red-green, here she is and paid for.

I'm very proud today because I'm in a real lit'ry magazine, complete with sound file of me reading it -- check me out on qarrtsiluni.

1. In my lunch box, pieces of deep red tomato and emerald coriander. Katie says that for a moment she thought I was eating handfuls of sweets.

2. In the middle of tea, at 5.25pm, I tell Caroline about the lady who was supposed to come at five and pick up some boxes. 'I wonder where she is?' And the doorbell rings.

3. I am planning to whisk Nick off for a weekend away, and I am offered some editing work, which should pretty much cover the costs.

Heads, found and praline.

1. Among the trembling grasses at Wellington Rocks, two small blonde heads.

2. Three men hunt backwards and forwards on the cricket pitch boundary for a lost set of car keys. They are found in a pocket -- much to everyone's relief.

3. A bite of praline in a spoonful of icecream.

Street papers, story time and our house.

1. I have been beating myself round the head for failing to pick up a copy of The Guardian on Saturday -- my own brother had an article in it. But Nick calls to say he has found a still-wrapped copy in the street.

2. I am keying a typescript, and I lose track of time. I have to dash off at an intriguing moment -- a stranger in a tall silk hat has just asked the little girl (the author of the memoir) if she sleeps in her white kid button-up boots. What will she say, and who will he turn out to be?

3. I never get sick of people walking into our flat and exclaiming at how large and airy the living room is.

Half-light, treat and kindness of ticket inspectors.

1. Coming into the sitting room in the morning while the curtains are still drawn.

2. A chocolate cookie with my first coffee of the day.

3. I had a return ticket this morning, and now I don't. Luckily, although the barrier objects to my offering it the outward portion, the attendant hardly looks and zaps me through. The inspector on the train spots that I am covering the word 'out' with my thumb, winks at me and lets it pass.

Heroine, more important things and fat cakes.

1. I am hurrying up the stairs to a seminar. Ahead of me is a lady, hurrying too. She says: 'Is this the way to the children's book seminar.' 'I think so -- the one with Jane Nissen.' 'Oh that's me.' So I get a chance to quickly tell her how much I appreciate her rescuing Marigold in Godmother's House. The seminar was about resurrecting children's books that had fallen out of print -- the market is parents who want to share the books they loved with the next generation.

2. The lift comes, but Elizabeth and I are too busy looking out of the window at London.

3. A mysterious box of birthday cakes with thick swirls of creamy icing has been delivered to the house by the Fenella Fairy.

Three admirable women, shine and smokers.

1. Finding three speakers I really admire at the London Book Fair: Xinran, Jane Nissen and Kate Mosse.

2. April showers because they make the world sparkle, and make everyone appreciate the sunny hours.

3. A couple of terms ago, my writing teacher recommended a series called The Smoking Room. The TV announces a two-episode run later in the evening. So I slip in another hour of writing and then settle down to watch. And I fall in love. It's like watching a tiny tobacco-stained stage play with characters so familiar that I feel as if I ought to be asking them how they're doing and if there's any gossip.

Surprise, setting of the sun and lost in a book.

1. Quite unexpectedly, finding the book I want in the wrong section of the bookshop.

2. The red sunlight hits a metal light fitting and bounces all around the room. We watch as it changes colour. I walk around the park once the sun has gone behind the houses and enjoy the golden light. Later, I sit at my computer catching up with work and think how lucky I am to have a view of the western sky. I admire the black roofline spiked with chimneys and go back to my work. When I look up again, the lower sky is a richer orange, and the line where the grey upper night sky begins has dropped a little. I wonder a little at the orange light shining through the holes in a chimney pot, and turn back to the screen. Work continues this way until the sky is dark.

3. Sitting in bed with a book so thrilling that I don't even notice how cold I am and how late it has become.

A tenner, maids of February and datebook.

1. Discovering £10 I didn't know I had.

2. Snowdrops peering sleepily out of the ground.

3. Katie and I have a rare evening in together. We spend the time choosing pictures for our calendar -- I know it's almost February, but we're busy people.

Strong women, my timer and mushroom.

I am up to date with the posts over Christmas; and also there are posts at Once Around the Park.

1. When I was young Mrs Thatcher was Prime Minister, and she made me think that a woman could do anything, even if there were lots of things that a little girl was not supposed to do or want or hope for. But along the way, it seemed to me, Mrs Thatcher had given up a few of the things I looked forward to being as a woman -- you'd never think of her as beautiful or feminine. And then I would see Benazir Bhutto on the news, and it seemed to me that it might be possible to have it all.

2. I never did get a kitchen timer for Christmas, so I take myself off to Trevor Mottram's cavern of delights. They have all sorts of kitchen timers; including a single red model of the sort I have been particularly hankering after. It is unboxed, and unpriced, so I ask how much it is. The assistant disappears into the back of the shop and comes back sometime later (I have been admiring copper saucepans and earwigging on a conversation about a member of staff dropping a knife on their foot). 'It's not in the catalogue, and it's not in the stocklist and I've asked the owner, and she doesn't know where it came from.' In the end, we agree that £3 seems a fair price. I set off home feeling very lucky indeed.

3. The taste of a fried mushroom. Or a raw mushroom.

Kitchen miracle, and now for something completely different and a little order.

1. Watching pancakes cook -- I like the way the top changes colour and becomes slightly translucent; and I like to see a brown frill appearing at the edge.

2. Channel surfing and finding a Monty Python double bill.

3. Tidying up a little.

Art for real, streets of London and getting what I want.

1. Seeing Millais' paintings in the flesh -- There some that were familiar from a Pre-Raphaelite craze that whirled through the sixth-form common room at school (The Bridesmaid, Christ in the House of his Parents, Ophelia). Others were old friends from my school history books (The Princes in the Tower, The Boyhood of Raleigh). Others seem to have squirmed into our culture and are as familiar as the BBC and Guardian (Bubbles)

2. We take a walk called 'Passport to Pimlico' which weaves through wedding cake streets of white stucco houses and tantalises us with hints of views -- 'look down this street and see an Italianate water tower.' 'Look up here and see the Apollo theatre.' 'From here you can see three of Battersea Powerstations chimneys.'

3. Last week, when we planned this day out, I said I wanted to watch the film Passport to Pimlico and wondered idly where we could get hold a DVD. Then Nick discovers that it's on TV at a time that fits in perfectly with our plans for the day.

Bread or cake, just in time and pink flowers.

1. Katie says banana bread is not cake, which means she can have it for breakfast.

2. Ellie drops me off just as the bus comes round the corner. I jump up and down and wave and the driver waves back, slows and pulls out of the traffic and into the bus stop so I can race across the road and thank him as I board.

3. Fenella brings five bubblegum pink gerberas.

Signature, victory and shut out the light.

1. I open a book that was a birthday present and find that the author has signed it, addressing it to me.

2. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named waves his damp sock in my face, so I throw it out of the window.

3. Closing the blinds at the end of a working day.