There are periods when the range of things we can eat becomes smaller.

Sometimes this happens because of health. Sometimes because of circumstance. Sometimes simply because the day asks for something simpler than usual.

By late February, the year begins to feel impatient.

Supermarket aisles announce what hasn’t quite arrived yet. Hot cross buns appear before the light has properly shifted. Chocolate eggs sit under fluorescent bulbs while winter coats are still zipped to the chin. The calendar insists on moving forward, even when the weather hasn’t caught up.

After rain, a city briefly reorganises itself.

People adjust their pace. Light shifts register. Puddles gather what the pavement has shed and hold it still for a moment — lanterns, windows, passing figures — before everything resumes.

Valentine’s Day has a way of getting loud.
Every year, it arrives wrapped in urgency — bigger gestures, bolder colours, grander declarations. Cards shout, flowers compete, and love is often measured by how much space it takes up.
But I’ve always been more interested in the quieter moments.

Most ideas aren’t bad.
They’re just not necessary.

That took me longer to understand than it should have. Enthusiasm is persuasive. It arrives early, speaks confidently, and insists that everything deserves a chance. But I’ve learned that enthusiasm alone is a poor editor. It’s generous when it should be selective.