We had a few days in New York recently. Me, Simon, Alice and Phoebe, in an Airbnb place in SoHo within grabbing distance of Dean & Deluca's coffee and bagels, hopping distance of McNally Jackson and James M Cain novels with beautiful covers, walking distance of fried pickles, Billy's Bakery and burritos, and subway distance of MoMa, the Met, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the High Line.
We caught the last of the autumnal colour. I read James M Cain and Georges Simenon to give me chills, and Patti Smith for local interest. I didn't buy any yarn or fabric (I don't know what came over me), but I made up for this at Strand Books where I loved climbing up the stepladders and surveying the eighteen miles of bookshelves and where Phoebe found a whole Cary Grant shelf.
At home we have planted nearly all the daffodils, but haven't got the tulips in yet (we like to sail close to the wind). I've knitted socks, laughed at the filthily funny Catastrophe, read more Georges Simenon, and been proud of Tom's recent success.
Nothing incredibly different in many ways to what's gone before, but in some ways sweeter for not writing about it.
I may have crossed a bridge.