Friday evening: Hazy light outside though the candles are lit indoors. A glass of gin & tonic, book (Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout, only 20 pages in, already in love) and pink tulips from a birthday dinner. The smell coming from the kitchen is glorious - lemon and rosemary on the potatoes roasting in the oven. Upstairs the sound of Lego bricks being rummaged through and a touch of brotherly bickering. Fires are burning bright as the wind has picked up a little. From here I can see the garden plants moving to their own music. Oh, Friday evening you are the stuff of dreams.
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