Technically still spring (if you ascribe to the seasons turning with the solstice) and yet I’ve sunk into a kind of Mediterranean-style existence. Not having an office to go to or regular working hours helps, as does having a baby that will sleep for a fair chunk of the day. I’ve started to clear afternoon plans so that we can dedicate time to napping, instead. I have mostly existed on melon, strawberries, apples and toast for the past few days. The crunch and chime of ice cubes nudging out of the tray marks the hours. First thing is glorious, bright and dry and fresh, somehow, but by the afternoon we are spent. We lie on the lawn in a nest of cushions and play mat and stare at where leaves intersect the sky.

So much languor, and so much and so little done. My mobile browser holds a dozen half-read longreads. I chip away at the same episode of Glow Up on iPlayer, a few minutes at a time. Instead, the things to write home about this week have been mostly sense and feeling. The salt of anchovy straight from the tin. The sound of a baby learning to laugh. The relief of a breeze on a hot afternoon.

Other good things this week: ...