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. 

Monday, November 11, 2024

Baking, bin and empty shelf.

1. A pair of cherry cakes cooling on the worktop.

2. In the course of our clear-out, I find a box and realise I can tip the entire contents straight into the bin.

3. We have an empty shelf, which I'm sure will get filled soon -- but for now, there is nothing on it.

Friday, November 08, 2024

Later in the year, new book and decorations.

1. To pin my poppy on to my winter coat and step out into the cold. I feel like we've crossed the winter line.

2. My eldest comes to find me with the new and beautiful copy of Dune that he has just bought, all matte covers and clear type on thick, smooth pages. It's a bit of a contrast with my copy, which I threw out because its badly printed yellow wood pulp pages were falling off its broken spine.

3. The crunching of a silver ball among the icing on a fairy cake.

Thursday, November 07, 2024

Stop, distance and bacon sandwiches.

1. Google Assistant starts to tell me the news, and then the feed stops for a technical reason, and there's no clear way to re-start it.

2. It's quiet out today -- most of the people seem to be far away in the mist, out of reach.

3. Nick declares that we're having bacon sandwiches for lunch.

Wednesday, November 06, 2024

Messages, white wine and bubbles.

1. I catch up with some correspondence and get a flurry of replies; and also some original messages, including one from Anna enquiring about our plans for planting up bulbs of paperwhite narcissus. It feels like I gave the comms channel a poke and unclogged it somewhere upstream.

2. We have the last of the wine with our supper -- one glass each, Sauvignon blanc, very cold.

3. She brings me a few nanotape creatures she has made -- sticky bubble beasts.

Tuesday, November 05, 2024

Notebook, French cheese and spider duty.

1. He slides into his pocket a notebook and pencil.

2. We unwrap a new French cheese. It proves to be exactly ripe and tastes like it might be triple cream.

3. While are settling down for the evening, a very large and spindly spider strolls over the bed. We catch him and put him safe among the books, hoping he will stay around and do his duty against the moths that occasionally try to move in.

Monday, November 04, 2024

Supper, getting into it and heart.

1. 'Pizzas are here!'

2. We are both holding our breath at this episode, and find ourselves holding each other against the tension of knowing what the protagonists don't.

3. One of the children has sketched a heart in the bacon fat left in the frying pan.

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 ...