These are the days I like best. The ones where the house dances to its own tune and Judy Garland sings the harmonies.
Days that smell of proper old-fashioned beeswax polish rubbed into ancient pine furniture and white chocolate cookies baking in the oven. Nectarine gladioli and basil bruised by the brush of my sleeve. The thud of a new book landing on the doormat and the pile of old ones destined for new homes sitting in a pink basket by the door. Homemade humus, crunchy the way I like it with flaky pastry sticks and a letter from a friend bearing oh so good news.
These are days that speak of domestic abundance: a three-tier cake-stand full of lemons, towels warm and soft from the dryer, a pile of bills, I can, for once, pay. Raspberry jam on doorstep toast.
These are noisy days, untidy days: the scratch of my babbas pencil across the page, Scooby Doo and the whizz of the blender. Hot chilli spilt into the cutlery drawer and the slash of a red felt tip across the carpet. The Rat Pack in the kitchen, Rhianna in the bedroom. News clippings and glue. A poem shoved into my purse waiting to be made sense of. Laundry fragranced by sunshine stacked on the ironing board. White tea-towels swirling in boiling water. Milky coffee sprinkled with cinnamon please.
The Painted Veil with a cup of tea and a cranberry red blanket. Hands that smell of baby soap and the boxed set of Dirt to wile away the lonely evenings. Shopping lists collated. Post-it notes scattered through piles of must be done’s. A pile of pennies in a polka dot eggcup set aside for an apple green mop bucket I can’t stop thinking about.
These then are the days I like best.