Sense of scale, treasure house and checking the colour.

1. We pass boys in blazers walking home from the grammar school. The first years are tiny under their huge rucksacks. Then I look at Alec in his pram and they seem like giants.

2. On a grey day of blurry rain, the bright fresh colours of fruit and vegetables in the cavernous green grocers are very appealing.

3. While I am feeding Alec, Nick brings my cake in so I can see if it is properly browned.

4. There was a romanesco cauliflower in our veggie box. We spend some time after supper admiring its mathematical spirals and pinnacles.

Picture from Stock.xchng

Hidden talent, not again and fast potatoes.

1. "You know you can click this lever and your front wheels will swivel, don't you," says the registrar, once Alec is a proper person. She kneels down (in her respectful, ceremonial black trousers) and shows us. We have been perambulating around for three weeks quite unaware that we had swivelling wheels. "It makes a real difference to the handling," says Nick.

2. The park is running and gurgling with streaming rainwater. Our shoes are damp (although we've avoided walking in puddles), and so is the bag of books and certificates from the register office (although I held it tight against myself all the way home). We shut the front door and promise we are not going out again.

3. "Seven minutes," says Nick. This is the time it took him to walk to the chippie, buy chips and mushy peas, and come home again.

End of autumn, woodsmoke and circles.

1. Walking through the park in the rain. Cold air. Cold sky. Warm reds and golds hang on bravely.

2. The smell of woodsmoke on a rainy day.

3. We've been walking in circles all morning, she says in a text. I assume it's a metaphor for a frustrating day. No -- walking round and round holding a couple of Mum's fingers is Ben's new favourite activity.

Rain in August, save and new bread.

1. To go outside and find that a little rain has fallen on a warm day.

2. Thunder storm: save your work.


3. I unlock the door and the house smells of new bread.

Things change, dry spot and chocolate.

1. I wake from a nap to find that Nick has polished all the shoes and trimmed the overbearing cupressus tree.

2. On a day when the washing has gone out... and come back in again... and gone out again, to go to the shops with an umbrella which we did not need.

3. Marks and Spencer do an almond chocolate with caramelised salt. It's delicious.

Change in the weather, The Simpsons and cooking asparagus.

1. The weather changes. Large drops of rain kick up that earthy smell.

2. I watch two episodes of The Simpsons one after the other.

3. Silver-grey bubbles form on the bottom of the asparagus pan. When I tip the water away, it is the green of a pond in high summer.

Cleaning my glasses, low cloud and Charlotte's gift.

1. When my glasses are smeary (everything has a blue-grey mist to it), to clean the lenses between my thumb and finger with washing-up liquid. To rinse them under the hot tap. Then to put them back on, still warm.

2. Low cloud today. The sky begins abruptly -- before the houses have even finished.

3. Nick brings home a bag of Easter chocolates from his boss.

Storing up sunshine, new bread and windowsills.

1. It's a sunny day, with bright, clean air. We make the most of the light -- the forecast is heavy rain for the rest of the week.

2. I like to wrap a loaf of new bread (still warm) in a tea towel and carry it round to a friend's house.

3. Katie's new kitchen windowsill is wide enough for a tray of seeds -- she's looking after it for her mother-in-law.

Treasure, education and supper.

1. The sun in shining, but shards and motes of snow have set the air glittering.

2. At The School of Life, they have a mural by Charlotte Mann in the classroom. It is done with black marker, and depicts a busy, cluttered room, with wide open windows. It feels as if some people have just stepped out for a moment, leaving their Scrabble half finished. Teacher Mark Vernon explains that it's to make you feel as if you aren't in a basement, and to maybe help you think a bit differently.

3. At supper they have a sort of fruit in slices. It looks like a pear, but it isn't. It turns out to have been soaked in vodka, and it is delicious. Later I pick up a thumb sized piece of chocolate cake -- it is both salty and sweet and fills my mouth in a very sticky, satisfying way.

Snow, not fish sauce and sleeping.

1. There is a dusting of snow this morning -- as if the world has been lightly sugared.

2. As I am paying, my bottle of soy sauce falls over -- but no harm is done. "At least it's not fish sauce," says the shopkeeper. "When a bottle of that breaks, it takes a month to get rid of the smell."

3. I read until I can't keep my eyes open. It feels so good to put my book down and drift off to sleep.

The chore, snow's back and winter duvet.

1. Nick goes to the supermarket so I don't have to.


2. While we were watching a documentary on Russian art, the snow returned, silently covering the world an inch deep. We grumble about the inconvenience, but go outside to make footprints in the drive and to marvel at the soft cold. It's a bit like an ex who has hurt you in the past -- but they are so cute and charming that you are always pleased to run into them.

3. We remember that we haven't yet put the winter duvet on the bed. So we do, and it's much cosier now -- before, I just couldn't get warm by myself. I inherited this duvet from my grandmother. Whenever we put it on the bed, I think of her.

To do, thaw and treatment.

Merry Midwinter, everyone. Today is the longest night here in the northern hemisphere, which means that the days are getting longer from now on.


I've published a few pictures in the last few days, and it's made me take extra special notice of the photo 3BTers this week.  

• This Home Sweet Home emailed me to let me about her beautiful things post in the the form of pictures. 
• Lori Delozier is another photographic 3BTer. She has managed to find beauty in her husband falling into an old septic tank, which put a gleeful smirk on my face. 
• Plutarch writes about his notebooks, in which he collects beautiful things. He says his notes are often decorated with sketches of pig snouts, reindeer heads and other diverse items that catch his eye, including a 20-second goose, in whose goosiness he takes some pride.

I'm always interested in 3BT stories -- even if your beautiful things are not for public consumption, it's great to hear about your experiences. Please let me know how you're recording the things that delight and amuse you.

1. "What shall we do after lunch?" Nick wonders. I tell him: "We're going to look at our wedding pictures again, and you're going to like it."

2. The snow has melted and frozen again so that each twig is cased in glassy ice.


3. My arms and back are dotted with crimson welts -- they look like mosquito bites and itch like crazy. Nick tenderly applies antihistimine cream to each one and tells me not to scratch.

First snow, hot potato and Christmas show.

1. I come out of the bookshop and fragments of snow are falling. At first I think it must be fake, blown from a display somewhere, because no-one else is reacting. But then two women pass me and I overhear: "Is it snowing? It's snowing, isn't it." I walk home on light feet with a huge smile on my face.

2. Taking a hot baked potato out of the oven.

3. I go to see A Christmas Carol at Trinity. It's a very spare production with a cast of eight playing multiple parts, but it's very cleverly done. A lot of the 'scenery' is created using a Greek-style chorus. The words are all Dickens', too, which is wonderful, particularly if you've recently read the book. Afterwards, I tell Caroline (who saw it the day before for reviewing purposes) that I wouldn't have minded seeing it all over again. She agrees.

Rain in the sun,cold hands and put them away.

The husband of a friend was commissioned to write a song for The British Humanist Association's choir. It's called Gathering Round the Fire, and it's about how at this dark time of year we crave the warmth of human contact. I think it's rather a pleasing sentiment.

(The link is to the MP3 on Amazon -- I get a small commission if you choose to download it that way. It is available on iTunes, too, if that's more your thing.)

1. It's a bright day, so I take a basket of damp washing out to the line. But the air is full of cold needles and I am annoyed at having to take it all inside and hang it up again. Then I see sparks of sun-gilded rain and can't help but forgive the weather.

2. A hot mug of tea makes my cold hands tingle.

3. I never feel comfortable when the best wine glasses are by the sink. I like to wash them, dry and polish them and put them away.

The visitor, out of the rain and spreadsheet.

On our wedding day, one of my favourite bloggers Mr London Street wrote a 3BT post, which is so full of love and pleasure that I hope everyone will give it a read.

1. Katie comes by after breakfast (by which I mean about noon) to drop off a card and have a catch-up. As always, she looks very glam in a smart coat that is the perfect length to show off her beautiful conker-brown boots. I am still in my pyjamas.

2. While waiting in a bookshop for the rain to stop: "That'll teach me to leave my coat in the car. Shall we go across the road and have a cup of coffee in BHS?"

3. We have so many people to thank that we need a spreadsheet to keep track. It's getting more and more heavily pencilled as we remember the kindnesses.

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.

That happiness, working clothes and olive oil.

1. Talking to a wise man who has met Nelson Mandela. He tells me about "that happiness he has."

2. To come home and change out of a pair of jeans that are stiff and heavy after a dash through stair rod rain.

3. The taste of particularly good olive oil - there's a bitterness there, and an earthiness.

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.

Just a shower, time out and five o'clock whistle.

1. I'm pegging out the day's third load of washing, and I can feel dots of rain. I take the sheets in (they're nearly dry). As I come round the corner of the house, I see that the sun is shining out in the street: green gold light hatched with shining lines of rain. It won't be a long shower.

2. It's so quiet: I have the flat to myself for the afternoon and evening because Nick has gone out.

3. It's half past ten, and I'm still working. I hear crunch-crunch-crunch on the gravel outside and that means I can stop.

Look up, singing cyclist and Nick is wise.

1. The sky is Tupperware white, but look carefully: there is a layer of mackerel sky below the flat white ceiling.

2. The road is misty Sunday-morning quiet. A cyclist passes me. He's singing in a reedy voice about angels.

3. I'm a bit rubbish with money -- I feel terrible when I spend, and yet always seem to end up with less money than I should have at the end of the month.

When Nick says: "I always give myself a set amount to spend. Once it's gone, that's it", I grumble about it not working for me. However, since one of things I really admire about Nick is his head for finance, I take his advice and go to the stitching show with the money that I could afford to spend in my pocket. Strangely, it exactly covered what I wanted to buy.