Choosing a theme for the year. No resolutions. No goals. Just one word. Presence.
Treating myself the house to the first bunch of flowers of the year. Tulips, my favourites.
Reading a book brought back from New York. This one seems to have everything in it - time travel, magic, a serious medical condition, a whole raft of personal tragedies, a Jane Austen-esque titular character, murder, mayhem and the rest - but it's a tad saccharine for my taste and completely failing to engage me. One destined for the ditched-halfway-through pile, methinks.
Inhaling the glorious scent from the hyacinths in the kitchen. The mister thought I'd really lost it when he caught me shoving my phizzog into the blooms.
Listening to a Royal Northern Sinfonia string sextet in our town's rather fabulous reference library and marvelling at the fact that, for once, I didn't cry.
Wondering if the littlest relative has a musical future ahead of him.
Finishing the last of the Christmas truffles. Such rich, velvety morsels. Consumed oh so slowly, each tiny bite truly savoured. Said nobody, ever. Honestly, they didn't touch the sides.
Sipping a glass or two of sherry. I know. I watched the news. Yes, living on the edge here.
Joining the lovely Penny in her quest to try new recipes from the books on the shelves. This week I made (with just a couple of tweaks because I just can't help myself) Smoky Veggie Feijoada from a cookbook received as a Christmas gift. It was so delicious we all just got stuck in. And I forgot to take a picture.
Buying a new top because this time of year is all about living Danishly. Apparently.