Steady rain, canon and heat.

1. We wake to the sound of steady rain after a few hot, dry days.

2. I tumble down a bit of a rabbit hole after a social media discussion of Pachelbel's Canon in D Major -- you'd know it if you've ever been to a wedding. I toss a couple of sketches from John Finnemore's Souvenir Programme into the thread, and then queue up some of his other works on Spotify. 

3. I quite enjoy the heat therapy part of my physio -- it's such a simple, pleasant intervention. The choreographer Twyla Tharp in her book The Creative Habit describes heat as her sacrament, and that's one way of considering physio tasks. 

Her name, flavour notes and up the hill.

1. Bettany sets off up the hill to school. I hear someone in the crowd jostling around the door make a joyful shout of her name.

2. Our coffee apparently has a flavour note of apricots. I'm not convinced. But when I take a draft, there it is -- definitely yellow fruits, although I couldn't say if it is specifically apricots.

2. As I am hurrying down to the High Street, I see Nick coming up from the station with his suitcase. 

Festival, fairy garden and ants.

1. We live in the sort of street in the sort of town where we can stroll across the park to a literary festival.

2. Bettany has been at work with a trowel and watering can, and now the front garden is full of fairy houses. 

3. To watch ants hurrying their eggs and young back into the deeper galleries of the nest I have just disturbed in the compost heap.

Two left, weeding and wisteria.

1. There are just two Jaffacakes left, so I have them.

2. The crackling, popping sound of weeds lifting out of gravel.

3. While the kettle boils, to watch bees tumbling in and out of the wisteria.

Over the field, the path divides and perished.

1. After the bridge, the hard path cuts across the middle of a grass field spangled with buttercups.

2. The hard path continues left; or there's a line of bare earth scored through the grass over the curve of the slope down to a stile in the valley.

3. My old theraband has perished. The edges have ruffled, and it crackles interestingly when I stretch it a few times. Then a quarter of it rips off in my hands.

Tiny rain, snail and kneading.

1. We can't feel the tiny raindrops, but we can see the rings on the still pond.

2. A snail in a pinkish shell watches us come up the path.

3. Today we've got time to knead flour and water into pizza dough.

Voting, brownie and listening time.

1. The way polling stations appear overnight, apparently constructed from office supplies, and then vanish again at the end of the day.

2. The last piece of the brownie Bettany made at the weekend is now very gooey and soft -- exactly right.

3. Dozing and listening -- now we're on to the chapter about rotator cuff pathologies.

Essay, azalea, swift call.

1. On the breakfast table is the essay Alec was fretting about last night -- printed and ready to hand in.

2. From a garden the scent of azalea.

3. Half-heard through the open window while I'm deep at work, the call of a swift.

Obscure reference, corn beef hash and that chocolate.

1. Today's episode of Zombies Run! opens with a reference to an Australian improv show, which I only know about because of my habit of fossicking about on the internet looking for rabbit holes to tumble down. 

2. Corn beef hash is what is for supper, and it's pretty tasty.

3. We get a fairly pricy box of chocolates delivered every once in a while from the chocolatier Coastal Cocoa. All of the chocs are delicious and we enjoy them very much -- but every once in a while, one turns up that is absolutely worth the subscription price. Last night we had a dark chocolate ginger caramel mini egg that made us both gasp with pleasure.