Wednesday, November 20, 2024

Early hours, advent biscuits and shedding.

1. At one point, in the early hours, I have both children in bed with me. I warm my back on whatever it is they came looking for in the cooling dark.

2. Two heavy parcels arrive for the children: a godfather has sent advent biscuits.

3. When I open the door to put boxes out, I find the front garden is blanketed with drifts of lemon-yellow fallen stars, and I can see the cold sky stars through the acer's bare branches.

Tuesday, November 19, 2024

Petit dej, familiar name and never-ending chore.

1. Showing Bettany how French children have petit dej -- a piece of yesterday's baguette with chocolate spread dipped in a bowl of cocoa.

2. Seeing a familiar name on the list of editors for a project I'm joining.

3. I hear Nick open and close the laundry bin before remarking that there isn't much in it. This is because I've kept on top of the washing while he was away.

Monday, November 18, 2024

Sleep, geraniums and in the woods.

1. After a long time asleep, I wake up.

2. Geraniums, impossible blue, bloom deep into November.

3. I find myself alone in the woods counting seconds, listening to leaves falling and the calling of birds.

Friday, November 15, 2024

Same way, through the barriers and events.

1. We are both walking back the same way.

2. I kiss Nick and see him and his case through the barriers at the station. The small farewell reminds me of when we first met and could hardly bear to be apart.

3. She puts on her shoes and darts down the hill to see the launch of our town's Christmas shopping events. Later, we watch fireworks (and other people watching fireworks) from our front door. 

Thursday, November 14, 2024

Cyclamen, last leaf and new pencils.

1. I spot some pale flower buds on the cyclamen by the front door -- tight furled promises.

2. In the sunny park, I catch a few startling crimson leaves on almost bare branches. I've been reading O. Henry's The Last Leaf.

3. I really like handing out brand new shiny black and red pencils from my stationery stash.

Wednesday, November 13, 2024

Tired, boy birds and at eleven.

1. I am tired this morning and so feel completely justified in standing and staring at lichen.

2. Little birds in black and palest brown scuffle and scutter in a thorn tree like boys on the way to school.

3. I have re-wrapped the parkin, swept the crumbs from the table and put our coffee mugs in the sink. A message arrives from Anna to say that she, too, has had a piece with her elevenses.

Tuesday, November 12, 2024

Free plants, seasonal joys and apricots.

1. A plant in the front garden has thrown out rosettes of dark red leaves with aerial rootlets. I snip them off and bed them hopefully here and there.

2. Anna and I meet up to plant up her Christmas paperwhite bulbs and observe some seasonal joys as we remember Elspeth Thompson.

3. In the car, I'm holding a warm jar of dried apricots steeping in spiced brandy and wine -- ready in a fortnight if anyone is coming by. 

Early hours, advent biscuits and shedding.

1. At one point, in the early hours, I have both children in bed with me. I warm my back on whatever it is they came looking for in the cool...