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Leaving home, folk duo and this old thing.

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1. My goddaughter is now grown enough to move out. To bask in her parents' pride at the unfolding story over WhatsApp -- and to admire the way she has cleaned the stickers off her door before leaving. There's something to give parents hope (If you know you know!)  2. There's always something to surprise and delight at an open mic night -- and here comes a youthful folk duo, Drover: beards and bright eyes and big jumpers with original songs telling old, old stories. 3. When asked if I have something for the second half, all I have is 'this old thing, that duologue that you've heard before', but Peppy says it will do nicely. On a lark, I freshen it up by press-ganging a stray actor to sight read the other role, and I am pleased with my boldness, and his gameness. 
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Scaffolding, in time and cricket.

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1. The neighbours' scaffolding is a lot more in our garden than I was expecting. But there is a certain grim satisfaction in predicting that it will probably be there for longer than the promised fortnight; and that the scaffolders will certainly come and remove it all on a Sunday morning at 8am. 2. It's a day when I'm wanted in two different places at once -- but I get there just as the dentist calls Nick in. 3. The soft mumbling of cricket commentary tells me that Nick is resting as he should.
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Rain in the morning, etiquette and cold right through.

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1. We wake to the sound of gentle, steady rain falling on the roof light and playing in the gutters. 2. For etiquette, we must ask forgiveness for our drenched and unprofessional appearance -- but secretly, I think we're both marvelling at the power of the weather. 3. I come home cold right through to my bones but quickly warm up in a second shower.
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Souvenirs, pest control and rain later.

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1. Flicking through the weekend's photographs -- can still smell the woodsmoke and the grass, and feel the sun on my face. 2. I got into the habit of ruffling my nasturtiums each time I pass to disrupt the flea bugs. This time, none of the iridescent beasties jump up. Now I look properly, the leaves are less lacey, and I'm still hoping for more flowers. 3. The air coming through the open window is definitely a draft and it has a gusty wetness to it that feels like rain later. I close the latch, and enjoy the stillness and the silence.
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Dawn, for the picking and kindly service.

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1. I wake in my sleeping bag just before dawn and crawl out into the cool dry air to admire the eastern sky, where the clouds are gilded on their undersides and all hung about with birdsong. 2. There is on our right an abandoned apple orchard, dark, unpruned and heavy with red-green eaters. We take one each for the continuing journey. 3. Every year, at the tired tail end of summer, I am so pleased to see cyclamen -- clean dolly mixture pink and white -- doing a kindly service  by brightening the dusty leaf litter under hedges. Cyclamen aren't natives, but they often pop up far from gardens, as if someone on a mission has tucked corms into banks and woodlands where they might be needed.
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Honey, coaxing and relief.

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1. It takes me a moment to identify it -- but that's honey in my piece of rocky road, rather than golden syrup. 2. The rain has coaxed a fuzz of green out of the dry baked fields, and everywhere plants are giving it another shot. 3. He returns from the dentist with a packet of antibiotics and a promise that they will start working within 24 hours; and also an extraction appointment for next week.
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Bouquet, springing and my thing.

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1. To walk through town cradling a huge bouquet of flowers -- butter-yellow scented stocks and sunflowers and a galaxy of daisy flowers. 2. Following my cousin's recommendation, last week I pushed a few spring onion roots into a pot to see if they would regenerate. I notice now that they are pushing up green stalks, and digging into the soil with new white roots as if they mean to give it a go. 3. She says that the thing that made this evening worth coming out for was my thing.  PS: My thing is on the Word Up Instagram, but it's too early in the morning for me to listen back to my own voice.
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