Twelve things I loved about this weekend:
One. Friday night, part i: street food (moong dal dosa for her, chicken satay for him – after much deliberation) washed down with a cone of Eton Mess ice-cream. (Haven’t tried it? You haven’t lived.)
Two. Friday night, part ii: a late night swan around Switch House, the new extension to the Tate Modern. Visit the Living Cities exhibit (4th floor) for get your brain whirring, then high-tail it to the roof terrace for a glimpse of sunset.
Three. A propagation lesson, in the late Saturday sunlight, with my grandfather. Cross your fingers my hydrangea shoot takes.
Four. Olympics everything. Who knew a card-carrying Europhile could be so enthusiastic about the successes of team GB in a post-Brexit world?
Five. Freshly baked white chocolate-chip cookies eaten standing up, gooey from the oven, in Grandma’s kitchen.
Six. Lunch on board a boat, anchored opposite Victoria, with a dear friend not seen in too long.
Seven. Rising early Saturday to volunteer – and afterwards, walking towards Westminster in the early light, oft-bustling streets still mostly empty.
Eight. A Saturday afternoon run on the best suburban charity shops – emerging triumphant with a stripe dress, battered leather loafers and an assortment of glass jars. The thrill is in the chase.
Nine. Visiting our family’s sweet little tabby cat, my grandfather’s shadow.
Ten. Iced coffee in bed on a slow Sunday morning, gearing up to pick August’s glut of blackberries and rhubarb in the back garden.
Eleven. The city in August, quieter somehow, more considered.
Twelve. Bruce Springsteen. Everywhere, all the time.