breaths of free fresh air on a countryside run after a day of indoors chitchat

the patience of six adults watching reruns of a hastily-composed small nephew and niece nativity (‘again’, ‘now you be a shepherd’, ‘you need to tap people on the head to count them’.)

the first faint roar of a real fire you made yourself

a family friend dropping in simply to give their last unused sheet of luxury christmas wrapping paper – thick, quality white almost-card, dusted with a sprinkling of dainty gold christmas trees, topped with a red star – because they thought someone might appreciate it (they did).

a still moment, between family visits, in which to write even a little