Haircut, revision and changing sky.

1. At this salon, with the sinks set up so I'm looking at a view of the woods while the hairdresser shampoos and rinses, I suddenly understand why a friend once suggested as a remedy for feeling flat that I get my hair done when it didn't even need cutting.

2. I'm helping with biology revision, and I'm struck by how much easier it is now to find information in a format that better suits your learning style. And as for being able to look at a film -- or multiple films if you like -- of the experiment that didn't work for you in class...

3. Drizzle and downpour all day; skies clear but for stars by 9pm.

Cheese holes, eerie and back at the table.

1. My nephew likes cheese, but only the holes, which I carefully snip out with kitchen scissors.

2. I feel a little bit sorry for the computer voice on the bus, because she is compelled to announce the very eerie stop named 'Hangman's Hill'.

3. We've had a long break because of a health set-back -- but now we're back at the Monopoly table, amid a cheerful parade of dancing skeletons, merry ghosts and cosy pumpkin lanterns. It's a relief to Tim on his feet and Rachel kindly and patiently bearing the extra labour.

Rind, mustering and moon.

1. The crack of pumpkin rind as I bring the knife round the lantern lid.

2. Now they've been pointed out to me, everywhere I go, I see the pale pointed caps of mycena mustering under the bracken.

3. Large and low, a hooked moon follows us home on the lefthand side.

Meal deal, caves and macaroni cheese.

1. We could have packed our own sandwiches -- but instead, we opt for a supermarket meal deal, and let someone else do the work.

2. On the way home, we talk over our favourite parts of Chislehurst Caves -- I liked the guide's story about crawling through into a forbidden space behind a wall and coming back with a photo of a ventilation shaft. And I liked him dropping a stone into a pool of water to see the reflections on the ceiling. 

3. Nick has gone all-out with the macaroni cheese -- it has fancy pasta, greens, bacon and crispy bread crumbs -- and it looks so appetising at the end of an editing sprint.

Shower, sparrow and night before bin day.

1. The rain comes down in rushing spate, drowning downpipes and running in fans over the asphalt. Next time I look up, the sun is out, watery, but present.

2. Bright eye, sharp beak -- a sparrow lands on next-door's stone pineapple and watches me, watching back.

3. Front and back doors open. The draught and I sweep around the recycling boxes stacked up in the kitchen and all through the house bringing the rubbish down and out.

Heavy weather, play and grace.

1. The cosy sound of bad weather thrashing and beating the walls.

2. I've got time and space and bandwidth to play with the layout of my planner this week instead of relying on the same-old same-old. 

3. Even Watson has the grace to seem embarrassed at the end of The Copper Beeches -- yet another story where Sherlock Holmes lets a woman put herself in gothic novel-style danger and do all the heavy investigative lifting so he can swoop in at the last minute, make some deductions and take the credit. I'm not surprised the great detective spends so much time moaning about being bored and under-stimulated; and I would give a lot for a run of Violet Hunter gothic thriller stories.

Pop-ups, fences and communication.

1. Today, after a few damp days, the common is alive with mushrooms and what I learnt on the fungal foray last week has opened that kingdom up like a pop-up book. Troops of delicate Mycena gleam in the dark beneath bramble thickets, sulphur tuft crowds on rotting stumps, and hoards of others that I don't recognise (yet). 

2. We quickly catch up about his progress and it feels so good to talk with someone who sees your child as you see them, and who looks right through the stories we have had to set up like fences.

3. A single picture tells us she has stopped off for a half-term milkshake.

Flock, turn and cards.

1. A flock of birds -- chacking and calling to each other -- whirls across the late afternoon sky, moving like a single creature.

2. With one eye on the sky and one on my work, I note the moment day turns to night. It's not the sky that tells me though -- it's my computer changing from cold light to warm.

3. Across the pub, near the door, jolly people are holding fans of red playing cards.

Open space, weather and turkey oak.

1. Even a small bag of books given to Oxfam has opened up space on our shelves for new books that we might want to read.

2. 'This weather reminds me of our honeymoon,' says Nick.

3. The turkey oak has dropped its leaves. They lie so thick that we cannot tell path from lawn.

Gift, web and route planning.

1. As I leave the field, there's a rush of wings and a cackling, crackling cry. THUD! A magpie has dropped a dead vole at my feet.

2. We are both very pleased with the penny-sized spider who has strung his web in the narrow space between the kitchen and the jasmine well above head height and with the western sky behind.

3. She comes upstairs for help with planning the route she will take coming back from a friend's.

Climbing, world-building and light entertainment.

1. Of course it's nice to see her touch the top hold on the bouldering wall -- but even better is to see her return to a puzzle that stumped her before.

2. I had forgotten the wonder in the world-building of The Colour of Magic, the first of Terry Pratchett's Discworld books. The series became a lot more human -- and the better for it -- but I would have loved to read more about the Dehydrated Ocean, and the light dams, and Tethis the sea troll.

3. Cosy under a huge crimson blanket we watch Celebrity Traitors and later we will move upstairs to hear how Irene Adler outmanoeuvres Sherlock Holmes.

Fine day, into the daylight and picture.

1. On this fine day, I've taken some time off to walk and talk in the autumn air... and in a café and round the table and waiting at the station.

1b. He comes downstairs into the daylight, and while we are not looking directly at him because we're unpacking the supermarket order, explains his photographs to our guest.

2. I ask the teacher for help and discover that thinner paint makes a finer line.

3. At the end of the evening, we take a selfie with our drying pictures as we are waiting for the train. I love the eccentric crop and our wine-shone faces (we were complaining about our aging appearance, but we look so proud and pleased with ourselves and our pictures).

Pears, jay bird and guacamole.

1. I took a kilo of disappointing pears out of the fruit bowl and baked them with ginger and dots of butter. Now they are definitely not disappointing, being sweet and sticky as toffee and gingerbread.

2. When you see a jay picking acorns, there is always the hope that you might find a blue-striped feather.

3. All the little shop had was the guac that is twice as expensive as the own-brand -- but it actually tastes of avocados, which seems like a good reason to spend a little more.

Hoarders, flowers and technology.

1. In a low voice he reels off the names of the muscles where I have been hoarding all this tension.

2. He comes home with posies of flowers -- late cosmos; hydrangea drifting between pink and green; midnight purple salvia -- to take to school for his photography class.

3. We've been listening to Hugh Bonneville reading Sherlock Holmes on Radio 4, and it's odd to think that  in Conan Doyle's world, you can ride on the London Underground to visit an opium den and then get a horse drawn cab back; that a submarine represents a weapon to end all wars; and if you want to tell someone something quickly over a distance, you have a choice of telegram, postcard or messenger urchin.

Pods, live music and quick supper.

1. 'I'm remaining calm under fire,' says Nick of the cracks and pops coming from my paper bag of sweetpea seed pods that are bursting in response to the dry, warm conditions in the house.

2. Cozy afternoon pub, live music, tasty beer and some good friends.

3. Supper is quick to make: reheated stew, rice and a few microwaved greens.

White grapes, gothic novel and predictions.

1. This week's grapes are particularly good -- a little hard so they burst well, and then both sweet and sharp. 

2. Before Nick comes up to bed, I read aloud the hot mess that is The Castle of Otranto. We are twenty pages in (including a long section we skipped, which seems to be assuring us that Horace Walpole isn't making this up because it's from a genuine found manuscript) and already someone has been crushed to death on his wedding day by a giant falling helmet; someone else has been falsely accused of black magic; and an isolated young woman is being pressured to marry her almost-father-in-law. 

3. Nick and I read our horoscopes and the predictions for the nation in Old Moore's and then get our monthly telling off from one of the children for imagining that the movement of stars has any affect on our lives.

Ginger tea, gothic novels and red moon.

1. Hot ginger tea encourages me back to my desk after lunch.

2. She is studying gothic novels at school and temporarily lives in a world of malevolent dead wives and plots to bundle her off to an asylum. 

3. We angle ourselves at the attic window view the large red moon sitting low in the sky.