Baking. Lemon and lime cupcakes for the Easter fayre at the animal shelter. Attempting to create grass out of buttercream and ending up with bright green worm casts.
Choosing. Treats (brownies, apple juice, ginger beer, rye bread, biscuits for Aunty M, blue Swaledale cheese) at Stokesley farmers' (or without the apostrophe, if you prefer) market, recently voted the best in the country. Pausing to admire a des res for sale (£1.9m, if you're interested) on the High Street and being pipped to the post for the last of the samosas at the spice stall.
Stopping. To ooh and aah (under the watchful eye of a trusty farmhand) at the lambs which have just started appearing in the fields up the road from here.
Messing about. With photo effects and failing to make those green worm casts look appetising.
Messing up. With fabric. Setting out to make a skirt and cutting it far too short.
Buying. More fabric. Two lots for two more goes at making a skirt.
Watching. Another episode of True Detective. Woah, this is a seriously good series, with great characterisation and dialogue and a gripping storyline (though maybe they don't need to be quite so explicit with some of the scenes).
Applying. Another coat of paint to the bedside cabinet. Then discovering the doors no longer close.
Finishing. One book at bedtime (York. Two women. Their lives cross. Except one lives in Elizabethan times, the other in the present day. A tsunami, witches and far too many rotten apples). Choosing another from the pile.
Feeling. Happy. No particular reason. Just a 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world' kind of happy.*