A Saturday in a new place, a Saturday that felt like spring. A spinach pastry so rich with butter it ate through the packet, split in the noontime sun. Homemade granola crisping in the oven, the flat scented with maple and cinnamon. We should all be feminists (yes, we should). A cup of coffee delivered to me in bed on an ordinary Tuesday morning, and an extra twenty minutes to snooze between the sheets. The whirr of the boiler when the heating clicks on in the morning (when we’re feeling prosperous). The teenagers scrawling slogans across hastily fashioned cardboard placards on Whitehall – impeach that despot! This sign was made with as much thought as Trump’s policies! Dumbledore wouldn’t let this happen. Refugees, you are welcome here. Heartwarming, too, the young woman leaving the rally, donating her witty sign to a group of youngsters on their way into the thick of it. My grandad’s gravelly, mischief-laden Cockney down the telephone line. Vegetable puttanesca. Slow Sundays with sister and the old cat. Days where I succeed at not reading the news. The sentences of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. A new library membership. Rain flung against the panes in the evening.