264. Wildlife Photographer of the Year

Every year at around this time, I nick a couple of hours from whatever turgid task is currently causing stopping me finishing my novel, and look at the winners and runners up in the Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition.

It makes me laugh (look at the fluffed up raven, sitting in the snow). It makes me cry (look at the polar bear on the thinning ice). It holds me spellbound (almost all of them, but particularly the black and white of the hare).

The dedication and talent of these photographers is incredible, and it's a huge pleasure to look at their work. I should go along to the Natural History Museum and stand in front of the pictures - but I love being able to take my time, gazing at them with all the awe and wonder of a child at Christmas.

263. The Rules of Civility by Amor Towles

I found this novel by chance. And I'm so glad I did, as I love it to bits and pieces and so does every single person I have given it to.

It restores your faith in the modern novel and ruins your appetite for anything else for a good week or so. I've now read it three times and I'm already trying to work out how long I should leave it til I can read it again. Please run to your nearest independent bookshop and buy yourself two copies - one for you, and one for all your friends.

262. A bath

It's the weekend. You've been running around all day doing jobs and chores, so you've earned a long hot bath. A magazine, maybe a cheeky glass of something cold and bubbly, and lots of scented bubbles.

The magazine provides entertainment and distraction while your muscles relax. The cheeky glass of bubbly needs no explanation but will provide a nice counterpoint to the heat. And the bubbles save you having to look at your naked body.

Herself sees having a bath as a kind of necessary torment, but I come from a family of bathers, and love having the time to soak in a hot bath. I'm sure it's really bad for my skin and nails and all that but it's not like I do it everyday. And sometimes we all need a few minutes to ourselves, in the peace and quiet, with just bubbles for company. Bring on the weekend!

261. Peanuts by Charles M Schulz

I didn't care too much about pictures when I was a kid. I liked the Beano and the Dandy, and I liked raiding my grandmother's attic for my mum and aunties old annuals because they were profoundly strange, but I wasn't really a reader of comics. But I loved Peanuts.

Why didn't Charlie Brown have any hair? Was Snoopy a dog or a kind of god? Would Schroeder ever pay attention to Lucy? Would Lucy ever let Charlie Brown kick the ball? Would Linus ever kick the blanket habit?

I read the strips in books, rather than day to day in the newspaper, and had to ration myself or fear running out of reading material. I go back to those same books now, occasionally, if the world has gone dark and I need reminding of the light. Never fails.

260. A kitchen weekend

Herself was out teaching this weekend, and the Hound was recovering from a minor operation and had to be kept quiet, so I spent my weekend in the kitchen.

On Saturday, I took the tomatoes Herself disparages so cruelly (despite having grown them from seed) and turned them into the tomatoeyest version of themselves, stewed under greaseproof paper for two hours.

Then I made a one-pot lamb meatball tomato butter bean stew thing, using the tomato sauce – the pot puttering gently on the stove while I talked, cajoled and bullied the Hound into relieving herself in the garden. It's strange what that dog has to be persuaded to do, sometimes...

Then we watched River Cottage, tucked under a blanket. The Hound was allowed out of her Cone of Shame for that bit, as a special treat.

When Teach got back we ate and drank very merrily.

On Sunday, I made chicken and mushroom soup for the Parent. And I baked real oatcakes. And I nearly set the house on fire by mistake. Then I spent a couple of hours planning an imminent trip to the Auld Country with said Parent. We mainly talked about where we would eat. The apple didn't fall too far from the tree, did it?

I wrote some extremely bad fiction.

Then I made Shepherd's Pie, long and slow and rich and unctuous.

It was a deep, nurturing pleasure of a weekend. The dog's stitches are healing nicely, Herself was fed and watered as befits a hard-working person, the Parent was tempted from her diet, none of it went wrong. If only I didn't have to earn my living, I'd never do anything else.

259. Postcards

I am almost certain that I sent my grandmother a postcard from every holiday I went on between 1997 and 2010. Poor woman, probably got really bored of them. But for me, sitting with a coffee (or glass of wine) somewhere peaceful for half an hour writing postcards, then working out how to say 'stamps for England, please in whatever language - is a ritual part of any holiday.  Since my granny died I have been sending postcards to the youngest member of my extended family - baby BF. She can't read yet but when she can she'll have a good fat postbag to get through.

I also use postcards to send little notes throughout the year. They're great for thank yous, or just to say hello without anything digital having to bestir itself. Have you noticed that daily life no longer requires any actual physical writing any more? But a postcard is a good excuse to put pen to paper.

And then there's receiving postcards. That's always fun. I have a particular soft spot for those sent by Herself's mother, who specialises in missives from exotic, far-flung locations that simply read 'It's raining today', or 'It's nice here'.

I suppose postcards are just a simple, time-honoured way of letting somebody know that you're thinking of them. Wish you were here.

258. Cottage Pie

I bought an enamel pie dish, so I had to make a pie.

Cottage pie is all about the gravy. Every single movement you make towards that pan should be about the taste and texture of the gravy, because everything else in there is pretty much going to cook itself. So once you've got your onions and celery and carrots soft and salty you brown your meat. Then what do you do? You add more flavour. Tomato paste, a crumbled stock cube, dried thyme, pepper. Then for the liquor - red wine first. Then water from the kettle. More of the former than the latter, please. Not too much - you're not making soup.

Then turn it down and bugger off. Sneak up on it every now and again for a taste. It should soon be viscous and savoury. It might need salt. Bugger off again.

When you literally can't bear it any more, turn the heat off. Then make your mash but remember if you make too much it will be too heavy and if you make it too sloppy it won't keep the meaty stuff in its place.

You'll want some cheese either in your mash or on top. Oven. Then, just before you faint with longing, get it out of the oven and put it under the grill until the cheese is sizzling and brown.

Revel. With some cabbage or peas and the rest of the red wine.