From the street outside our house I see Heidi's paint brushes in the window of the studio on the top floor. They stand in a vase like flowers, symbols of her profession.
Today I have been cooking fishcakes. I have learnt, over the years, to make them of uniform size and firm enough to hold together, yet moist enough not to be dull and stodgy. They are seasoned with finely chopped spring onion, fresh fines herbes from the garden, a hint of chilli, plenty of salt and pepper, and made unctuous with a little crème fraîche in the mix. We get out fine breadcrumbs from Germany, which cling to the cakes and become a delicate golden brown when fried. Writing about them makes me hungry.
I have long admired the Scottish poet Don Paterson, in particular for his collection called Landing Lights. I have been meaning to read his more recent, book of aphorisms The Book Of Shadows. It arrived from Amazon yesterday, a small paper back, and I am enjoying dipping into it. I can't imagine reading it fromm cover to cover. One example almost at random: "All our instruments are accurate except the clock. The clock holds up two stick in the air and draws a conclusion".