Four books in three weeks, two cups of cold tea I forgot about, and the strange gift January makes of the dark.

Donal rang at half ten on Christmas morning to tell me it was dry in Cork, as if I'd want to know that.

Bess had been in the garden since before eight. By the time I noticed, she'd already made a decision about the vegetable patch.

I took the train from Killarney to Cork to see Donal before Christmas. It takes two hours and twenty minutes. I'd forgotten how much I like trains.

Donal rang while I had my hands in the onions, and by the time I got off the phone I'd done it wrong according to him three separate times.

Five nights in Dingle in November, and I barely saw another tourist. The harbour was quiet in a way that felt almost rude.

The bread didn't rise the first three times I tried it this winter, and I'm still not entirely sure what I was doing wrong.

The cracked teacup with the blue rim is still in the press. I keep meaning to throw it out. I never do.