I had a baby in June, which is wonderful for a million reasons. But one which I hadn't seen coming was the way it makes you slow right down. We spend hours looking at plants in the garden, really studying a raindrop slip down its leafy slide and plop off the end. Or watching a starling busying around, carefully choosing its twigs from a patch of scrub, like a chef perusing peaches in the market.
It has made me notice tiny moments of my day. The way the aircon wafts the mosquito net around our bed in the morning light. The methodical shushing of the neighbour sweeping his path very slowly and meticulously as the sun rises. The noise of the keys landing in my nepalese singing bowl.
And it has taught me to treasure the tiny things. The flowers on the orchid in the garden which bloom so perfectly despite very little nurturing. The first mouthful of extremely cold milk and Weetabix each morning. The comfortable look of the well-worn stone step up to the pagoda. The little dilapidated wooden pillbox down the road signed "VHS Hire".
So today at my desk, I'm delighting in my plant, which has survived and thrived since our first photoshoot in June 2016, despite my persistent negligence. In the expanding profile of my book which has patiently been dragged around for weeks. In the bubbles and ripples of my glass. In the wonkiness of the little milk jug. In the cold smoothness of my spoon. In the fact that my pencil will need sharpening soon which I will enjoy. In the way you can't rush the coffee plunger; it goes at the pace it goes at. Quite right.