[Photo by Luca Upper]
Melted cheese, in all its forms. Really, really cold white wine. Perfectly ripe raspberries. Hot buttered toast. Hot buttered crumpets. Really, anything that’s hot and buttered. A pile of mussels cooked in white wine with salty chips to dip in the sauce. Preferably to be eaten close to the sea. Crispy roast potatoes. A really fudgy brownie. The crack when you tap your spoon on top of a perfectly cooked creme caramel.
The true, gurgly laughter of young children. The true, raucous laughter of adults.
Tiny baby socks and tiny baby toes. Giant puppy paws and giant puppy licks.
Bubble baths on a cosy winter night. Showers after a long summer day.
An unopened book. The smell of new books. The smell of old books. A finished book that stays with you for a long time. A book passed to a friend because you know they’ll love it. The text message they send you when they’re at the cliffhanger and know you’re the only one who will understand their pain. Buying books as gifts. Receiving books as gifts. Discussing books for hours on end. Bookshops.
Cheesy 90s and 00s pop music on the radio at work.
The moment you first turn on the heating in autumn. The moment when you turn the heating off for good in summer.
A bed made with freshly laundered sheets; ones that have been dried on the line so they smell a bit like softener and a bit like fresh air.
Those nights with friends that you know you’ll remember forever. Those moments with family when you realise that you have the very best family, no matter that everyone else says the same. When friends become family, and you make plans for your lives together as if you were all just one giant married couple.
Baking a pie. Baking brownies. Decorating a cake.
When bus drivers wave to each other as they pass each other on the road.
When you get to the bus stop at exactly the right time so you don’t have to wait but you don’t miss the bus.
An Old Fashioned that is orange-y enough to take out the sting of the bourbon, but not completely. A cold gin & tonic on a warm summer’s day, but only when shared with friends. The bitterness of an Aperol Spritz and the sweetness of a glass of Pimm’s. The fruit you fish out of your glass of Pimm’s when you think no one is looking. Spaghetti aglio olio. Fish & chips by the beach, with liberal amounts of vinegar. Really good pizza. Really dirty pizza.
Realising you really live somewhere when you can’t go to the shops without spotting someone that you know.
Getting proper post. Writing letters. Sending cards.
Writing in a brand new notebook using my best pen and my best handwriting.
Roof gardens. Roof gardens with a view. Roof gardens with a view over Manhattan, in particular. Briggate on a Friday night. Roundhay Park when the sun is shining (especially when there are lots of dog-walkers about). The Mustard Pot on a summer afternoon or a winter’s evening. Chapel Allerton on Saturday morning. Leeds Town Hall lit up at night. Spotting the Candle House from the train and knowing you are so close to home. The ‘nearly home’ bridge on the way to my grandparents’ house. My aunt’s kitchen. My best friend’s childhood bedroom. Yorkshire villages. Yorkshire countryside.
Spotting a woman who is dressed outlandishly but so well you can’t help but grin and wish for some of her pizazz.
People who are passionate about a really niche subject that I have no interest in.
Twitter, when it’s at its very best.
Fluffy peonies. Roses that actually smell like roses. Very bright daffodils.
A really good sunset.
Inspired by The Dolly Mail
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