Kew

It was a Saturday afternoon. The Friday before had been horrible, a complete meltdown in an assessment which I should have breezed, then a late finish, last in the office, eyes blurring behind the computer screen as I struggled to complete a piece of work with a Monday deadline. The week following wasn't much better, a stupid o'clock start on the Monday to finish said piece of work, and then playing catch up with my inbox for the rest of the week.

But that Saturday afternoon was perfect, made even more so sandwiched as it was between the two. The sun was out, and despite power cuts on the overground and confusing Transport for London instructions we made it to Kew, where bright yellow daffodils lined the paths and parakeets flew between the branches of still bare trees. We walked by the river, through the rhododendrons, sat for awhile in front of the pagoda, climbed a staircase and emerged onto a walkway in the treetops, wandered beneath palm fronds and past cacti in the glasshouses.

Looking back at the photographs the afternoon is now graced with a dreamlike quality, flowers taken in the hot houses through a misted up lens or outside, blue and star-shaped, glowing, other-worldly. The sun slipping behind the Palm House, calling it all to a close.

Richmond, first sun

We've had so many days of warm sunshine recently, but I think this one might have been the first. The last weekend in February. In the pub the night before, making friends with inquisitive dogs, spilling Sambuca all over my handbag, last ones in the room as the staff upturned chairs and swept the floor. Waking fuzzy headed on the Saturday to sunlight, bright and warm, then on a whim deciding to go to Richmond to meet M, sticky, aniseed scented handbag and all. Drinks by the river and a stroll along the water, painted boats and blue sky, early blossom. Lunch from the farmers market then the overground back North to meet Anna for a coffee at the Camden Arts Centre, sitting in their garden above the Finchley Road for the first time that year.

26 February, Columbia Road

I think perhaps that there is no better way to spend a sunny Sunday morning than wandering through Columbia Road flower market.

Especially when there are fat bunches of Dutch tulips to be had.

Sunday Afternoons

This time last week I'd just built a snowman.

January

January came and went surprisingly painlessly. Normally I find that it drags, slowly. Skiing for a week took a big chunk of it. Hard to feel low with the wide open sky and snow covered mountains. So that was part of it. But, also, January was filled with good things. Bloody Marys on a Sunday, a walk in Stoke Newington cemetery, pub roasts and dear friends. New friends too, river walks, post work drinks, tea rooms in old pet shops. Maltby Street market with one of my oldest and bestest, then the new White Cube gallery in Bermondsey. Friday nights out with the uni crowd, tapas then tiki, or in with spaghetti and friends made a year ago. Ceremonials pretty much on repeat on the ipod (And I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart). A breathtaking exhibition of the Scott Shackleton expedition photography, taken in too quickly one lunch break. Columbia Road flower market, which never disappoints. Walking home with the fattest bunch of Dutch tulips. Brunch at The Breakfast Club, pancakes stacked and syrup smothered, and at Dean Street Townhouse, Eggs Florentine, velvet covered seats and wonderful service. Cinema trips (Shame, The Iron Lady) and discovery of brilliant North London pubs.

No, January was not so very bad at all.