Busy-busy, expedition and the final wonder.

1. This morning, everyone wants a piece of me. I think this is what being a mother must feel like.

2. Rosey is off to the Arctic this weekend, and her worries put mine into perspective. Will a half litre bottle be large enough to pee into when she can't get out of her tent during a snow storm. Where is she going to find a black bra with no underwires in her weird size at short notice (she's not changing her clothes until June so a white bra will turn a distressing colour).

3. We watch the last Wonders of the Solar System -- Professor Brian Cox's final wonder is our civilisation. This put a big smile on my face. I fully admit that there are a lot of things wrong with what we are doing to the planet, but I do get tired of the way we run ourselves down. When you think about things like microchips, bicycles, chocolate biscuits, four-year crop rotation, neurology and German expressionist film, you have to admit that we have achieved an awful lot.

Re-reading, lightbulb moments and a good evening.

1. I need something funny and comforting and familiar to read on the train. Thank you, Mr Bryson.

2. I go to a class at the School of Life -- How to Stay Calm. The teacher, novelist Naomi Alderman, says that people either come to this class because they have a problem with anxiety (that's me) or with anger (mostly men, she says). I find myself talking to a man who says that social anxiety vanishes once you realise that everyone else is far too worried about themselves to notice you. I tell him how when I first understood that aged 18, it was like a burden being lifted from my shoulders. Then we tell someone else about it.

3. A Japanese man and woman are waiting for the tube. They are flushed, and limp with laughter. It makes me smile to see such open happiness.

Ephemera, showing the parents and holiday memories.

In the 3BT world last week:

• Raymond suffers a coyote alarm. 
• Louisa explains why she doesn't want a second bathroom. 
• Plutarch admires the style of an elderly man crossing the road, and remembers when all this was snow. 
• Den suffers for her husband's art (but thinks it was worth it). 
• Whitney hears Fitzroy's oldest member lift up his voice. 
• Leonora has a very mannerly farrier.

1. We have put away all the wedding cards, and now the room looks spare and clean. I'm keeping all the good wishes safe, though. I still like reading over them, so I'm keeping them with the other ephemera that reminds us of the day.

2. We show Nick's parents the wedding photos. They coo over them, marvelling at how good the photographer is, and at the pictures of themselves.

3. We go to The Ghurka Restaurant on Church Road. Towards the end of the meal, a song comes on that was playing everywhere when I went to Nepal in 2001. I chatter to Nick about prayer wheels made from milk tins, and the place where fire and water come out of the same cavern, and staring blue gentians growing in dead brown grass only just uncovered by the snow.

The smile, addressed and bedmaking.

We're back safely from our honeymoon -- we had a lovely relaxing few days. Being married takes a bit of getting used to, but we've got plenty of time.

Thank you very much to the guest posters who covered last week -- I felt much better than I expected to about leaving the blog because I knew it was in safe hands. And it's always a privilege to read about other people's beautiful things, particularly people who don't often express themselves in writing.

And thank you particularly to Katie who typed up three scribbled hotel memo block pages that I thrust into her hand as the train pulled out of Tunbridge Wells, and turned up some piccies of the wedding... And added a few extra beautiful things which I thought of later in the week.

The wedding day was magical, and we are still enjoying the memories. My husband and I felt so loved and supported by everyone there, and by all the people who let us know that they wished us well in emails and comments.

1. We walk through the corridors of Charing Cross Underground Station on our way home. I am cradling an enormous bunch of red, orange and yellow flowers. Nick is carrying the small bag that matches my patterned suitcase. I don't clock that I am grinning ear-to-ear until the busker with the accordian smiles back at me.

2. There is a card waiting for us, addressed to Mr and Mrs Nicholas Law.

3. We turn the mattress and make the bed up with fresh sheets. This is a weekly chore that I love because having a partner... a husband to help makes it so much easier.

I vowed I would not write about the honeymoon, but I'm going to sneak a few things in: The hotel Nick chose for us proudly boasted that they used regional products, including oil pressed from rapeseed by Fussels Fine Foods. We were walking round the Christmas market, and spotted a stall selling rapeseed oil. We got chatting to the stallholders (they reminded me very much of the jolly and philanthropic Cheeryble Brothers in Nicholas Nickleby). When we told them we'd spotted them on our hotel menu, and that we were on our honeymoon, they very kindly made us a present of a bottle of oil.

The afore-mentioned bunch of flowers was a lovely surprise in our hotel room, organised by Nick. The lilies have been opening all week went on, and are still revealling themselves. And I've never seen such velvety dark red roses in all my life.

Finally, the hotel was wonderful -- peaceful and comfortable. If you're ever in Bath, The Queensberry comes recommended. I hope we can go back there one day!

Quiet, nap and pie.

1. The road is quiet for a moment, and I hear the t-t-t-t of a passing cyclist who is meandering slowly along as if he doesn't have anywhere particular to go.

2. I'm cold and sleepy, so I bundle myself up in the duvet and take an afternoon nap.

3. I like to have a second slice of banoffee pie.

Breakfast, we're coming back and home.

This week Christine over at Really Bad Cleveland Accent is painting 100-word pictures of her much-loved home city. Go and take a look.

1. Freshly baked croissants and baguette for breakfast.

2. Monmatre in the haze as we come back into Paris by train.

3. Pulling my suitcase through our own front door.

Garden, the promises and people in the picture.

1. I like to come into the gardens of the Tuileries Palace from the Place de Concorde. We went from bright white pavement, to bright white sand to an idealised forest. Arrow-straight rows of chestnut trees shade pocket handkerchief lawns on which stylised bronze sculptures desport. Runners crunched past us, shifted into their own world by the rhythm of their steps.

2a. Before the wedding, in the carpark catching sight of a familiar dark-haired figure re-arranging an unfamilar white dress.

2. Sarah reads her vows in French, and Matthieu reads his in English -- what a wonderful way to affirm the cultural duality of their marriage.

2b. I like to see the groom looking at the bride and smiling to himself.

3. A charismatic preacher talks about the beauty of The Song of Songs. Its central theme is romantic love, so I am surprised to learn that it's not very often used in marriage ceremonies.

4. The bride and groom come round to our table and Sarah tells us that we're the only bilingual table. We'd been getting on all right -- questions and translations washed round and round and faces lit up as jokes arrived their destinations.

5. A long time ago, Katie painted a picture of me, her and Sarah. It seems Sarah still has it on display -- "Ah, you are in le tableau... the picture?".

5. The bride's father gave a speech in French -- first explaining that he hadn't spoken it for 50 years.

Supplies, language and sparkle.

1. Buying round crusty rolls for a picnic.

2. A phrase book brings all my GCSE French flooding back.

3. We cross the Champs-Élysées twice so we can look up the ribbons of sparkling head and tail lights to the Arc de Triomph.

4. "Look!" says Nick, and I turn to see the Eiffel Tower sparking and glittering with bright white lights.

Melting, out of my hands and the day I caught the train.

1. It is so hot that my bright red ice lolly is dripping down my hand.

2. Dropping a job application into the letter box -- after all that polishing and refining, what a relief to have it immutable and out of my hands.

3. I was disorganised and now I am going to miss my train -- but I run anyway, and find it's three minutes late.

Got it done, different inside and red dots.

1. I had an awful experience trying to book some train tickets recently, and I've been putting off trying again and putting it off... and off... and the people who are doing the same journey as us said: 'You'd better get in quick if you want the cheap tickets' and I put it off some more and worried about it. And then yesterday, I did it. Tickets are in the post.

2. We view a house that is 1960s ugly on the outside, but wonderful inside where an architect has put in a glass door to the garden that runs the full height of the split level sitting room, dining room and kitchen.

3. The paprika falls on my soup in dots, which expand suddenly like ink drops in water.

Age gap, hats here and moving back in.

1. Overheard: "I'm the oldest, Mommy. Stop treating me like the youngest."

2. Overheard at Waterloo Station on Ladies Day at Ascot: "All these beautiful women wandering about with these like massive hats on... And I'm all like:" She veers from side to side to show how the finery has been distracting her.

3. We put the mirror and the towel rings back in the bathroom, clean everything and start to move our stuff back in. It feels finished.

It's raining, good post and reading in the bath.

Hallo to all the Hungarians visiting. Thanks for your interest.

1. If it's raining, I take the bus into work instead of walking. Sometimes, it looks like it's going to rain and then doesn't -- and I feel bad for spending money I could have saved, and guilty for not taking the exercise. Today there were definite rain drops, and I felt I'd made the right choice.

2. In my pile of mail is a card from the postman saying I have a parcel waiting; and a snail badge from Sheer Sumptuosity.

3. I lie back in a violet-scented bubble bath and start reading Twisted Wing -- it's a gory university murder mystery set in a fictional Cambridge College. I'm not normally a serial killer story fan; but I do like a good university novel. It's a real gore-spattered page-turner, full of solid characters that you love and hate by turns. One of the view-point characters is a forensic psychologist, and it's fascinating (and educational) to see the world through his eyes, too.

Where we live now, box of books and glad I did.

1. At the bus stop he tells me that last summer they had a small swimming pool in their garden, and a waterslide. 'It was full of kids. My children's friends came, and they brought their friends.' He tells me that he's moved to a new street this summer. 'Everyone says it's a bit rough, but it's fine. So long as you say "All right mate" when you see them, don't ignore them as you go past, it's fine. They'll give you a hand with anything, and don't expect nothing for it, either.'

2. I like picking up a couple of books from the bookshop. One is the lovely Homemade: Gorgeous Things to Make with Love. It's clothbound in gorgous aquamarine, and heavy with thick, satisfying pages.

3. Nick comes home, and a great wave of aching tiredness crashes down on me. I can hardly bear to go to art. But as always, when I look at what I've done, I'm glad that I took the risk.

Desolation, aeronauts and home tasks.

1. We are shocked that the desolate, delapidated, tumble weed and dog shit Marine Parade of Folkestone was recommended in a tourist leaflet. We try to find decayed grandeur, but see only neglect and sadness. Then a path under a bridge tempts us into a garden of wandering paths, pine tree shade and sculptures.

2. "Scree-sree scree-sree," insist the swifts who are throwing themselves around the blue space above us.

3. To come home, add a few treasures to the window ledge and inspect the health and happiness of my plants.

Narrow guage, over the fence and history lesson.

1. The Romney Hythe and Dymchurch Railway is so narrow that you could only just drop a foot ruler between the tracks.

2. The line between Romney Sands and Dungeness runs between two rows of houses. Heads (an aristocratic greyhound, a sun-red man with tattoos and medallions, a small and friendly hoodie with his mother) pop over back fences to see us go past.

3. I talk with an ATS re-enactor and she explains some of the things my grandmother talks about -- the hat band over the top; and the mysterious bootlace hairstyle. We learn from a Desert Rat that the men were allowed two pints of water a day (for everything) and used petrol to wash as it was more widely available. The Desert Rat tells a passing boy re-enactor 'You've got yer belt on upside down. You'd be on a charge for that.' The boy disappears into a tent to sort himself out.

4. The whole reason we have come down here is to see a replica of the armoured train that patrolled the railway during world war two. It stands in a siding, a sad grey plywood shell. But once I've seen some pictures of the original, I can imagine how satisfying it would have been to patrol up and down, ready to defend against the German invasion.

5. I liked seeing the father and two toddlers who sat in the next compartment tumble out at the end of the line to meet mum, pushchair and terrier.

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.

Smoky, cherry blossom and a place to sit.

1. The rust red and gold stripes on crispy bacon.

2. Every one of the cherry blossom that jostle for our attention has its own damp piece of new leaf. They remind me of soft fat ladies, powdered and rouged faces over little green silk scarves that are knotted round their necks, 1950s style.

3. There is some wind, and the air is spring cool -- but this smooth concrete bench has warmed up in the sun, and has a view across Romney Marsh, almost to the sea.

Going, a promise and page layout.

1. Just as I am waking up, my brother comes up to my room to say goodbye.

2. I have promised myself a train journey, a coffee, a couple of trashy magazines and a good long read of Ursula Le Guin's Planet of Exile. As the day's plans whirl round the breakfast table, I'm not sure if I can keep that promise to myself. But luckily, the car is too full, so I can't have a lift home -- instead I get a trip to the station with my aunt and a clean train journey.

3. I come home to a message from the people at Longbarn -- what do I think of these page designs for the Three Beautiful Things book?

Getting out of here, windmill and copper mine.

1. We strike out up the road, independent with a rucksack, lunch, map and water.

2. We stand under a wind turbine and hearing its whomph-hiss, whomph-hiss. I feel very small and vulnerable.

3. The copper mine is like a filthy fingerprint on the green land. Standing in the dead land (filthy ponds in the middle of the sliced off mountain top) we can see in all directions green fields between the slag heaps.

4. A slice of gooey chocolate cake. Its butter icing is gritty with sugar.

Gorse, game of shadows and purple gaze.

1. The gorse in glorious cadmium yellow flower toasts in the sun smelling of coconut biscuits.

2. I like to hear Nick planning how he would deploy forces if he was playing a wargame across a landscape.

2.5. We are enticed from our route by a sign that says 'Permissive Path to Shop'. It leads through a squeaky metal gate decorated with a cut-out foxglove and round the edge of a field of black bullocks. The field lush green, but the path is as studded with daisies as the Milky Way is with stars.

3. A few violets fix us with a piercing indigo gaze from the bank under the hedge.