At the end of each month, over on Instagram, I post a handful of photos that I’ve taken during the previous few weeks. It’s one of those trends that I’d devour a longread about the origin and meaning of in a hot minute and have shamelessly succumbed to, but what I find interesting is how they’ve acted as small moments to reflect on an unruly year. Looking back they act as snapshots of things that were, of course, far brighter and deeper and harder than they probably seemed. July’s strawberry-covered baby vests and bowls of soup masked the worst month of my life, for instance. Last March’s, which featured a baby and a bestseller list, would have been posted while I was recovering from a post-natal infection and hungover with love. It’s not that I necessarily intentionally try to glow reality up on Instagram (no more than everyone does, at least), but that a photo can only tell so much - especially if you’re a person who deals with words.

I’m writing this a day before I log off for the long weekend and I’ve been thinking about what I might put together for this month’s post. Streamers hanging in the front room. A fish in a tray, devoured on our son’s first birthday. Tulips falling elegantly apart on the shelf in the kitchen. The baby holding a sprig of rosemary, taken from a box of trimmings left by a neighbour’s front gate.

It’s been a rare good month. On Friday nights M and I catch our breath and talk about the week we’ve had, and this will be the fourth consecutive one where the main notes I have are: “It’s been a good week”. That has been far more elusive over the past year that I would have ever imagined. It’s been a good week. It’s been a good month. I’ve never cherished such a thing more. Wishing you a restful and bright Easter.

Other good things this month:...