Sunday, November 30

Silver scraping of whisk on pan - the music of mum making cheese sauce for tea.

Saturday, November 29

Both the couple behind me and the woman in front of me in the supermarket queue have forgotten their hessian bags, just like me. We buy new ones, wanting to be green. We are trying our best.

Friday, November 28

stacked wood patiently waits to be set alight

Thursday, November 27

two flies meander, pale against the cold and dreary hedge

Wednesday, November 26

Sunday, November 23

it isn't true, but it feels like there's nothing to write about today

Saturday, November 22

cold outside

the wood burns white, exhales heat, keeps the cold outside

Thursday, November 20

Found small stone, City Link warehouse office

NOTICE: Please refrain from opening the windows in this office to their full extent as they represent a hazard to people walking along the front of the building.

Wednesday, November 19

Tuesday, November 18

Monday, November 17

after a stormy night, everything finds its place again

Sunday, November 16

a dull ache in my stomach
a dull ache in that tree as it sheds leaves

Saturday, November 15

Late harvest

Three leeks, filling the room with their oniony reek.
The last of the giant butternut, whizzed into soup.
A small saucepan-full of knobbly beets.
Seven heads of garlic in the dark.

Friday, November 14

blueberry explosion

when she opens the door to the fridge there is a blueberry explosion: they bounce and roll their way to temporary freedom

Thursday, November 13

Wednesday, November 12

Tuesday, November 11

Monday, November 10

the rain rains on everyone and makes them slightly wet

Sunday, November 9

On Aldeburgh beach

I choose a pebble, smooth and speckled with blue, and hold it in my palm for a while before bending to put it back where it belongs.

Saturday, November 8

On the train to Aldeburgh

I suddenly grin at the thought that I am a writer. A writer!

Friday, November 7

a ballooned lipstick-pink plastic bag
marooned in a poplar tree
as it gratefully sheds its yellow leaves

Thursday, November 6

I sniff at the lavender tea-light to find the scent and notice the tip of the wick glowing tangerine, the lavender tinge at the base of the short fat flame.

Wednesday, November 5

between paragraphs at my desk

she skips from perch to perch
- pausing mid-air -
her wings a hummingbird-blur

a splash of luscious pollen-gold
her crown

Tuesday, November 4

Monday, November 3

Sunday, November 2

Saturday, November 1

Her clothes are designer - lopsided, layered, bright. Her ringletty blond hair extensions are huge, as if she's wearing a collie dog. Her face is small, pale and pinched. She draws attention, but not the kind she needs.