On a page of my notebook are small blobs made by drips from buttered toast. They have created shapes which invite the point of an exploring pencil to complete or modify. They have become a reference for a particular moment on a particular day.
A belated breakfast outside my favourite cafe. A cup of tea and a cheese and Branston pickle sandwich. I sit in the sun and think to myself that on a desert island this would be the luxury I would most be in need of.