Making hummous: the satisfactory blubbing sound of the putty-coloured mixture that is just the right texture, not too sloppy, not too dry.
One of the things I like most about our bedroom is the reflection of tree branches on the back wall. The shadow leaves sway and dance on the yellow surface.
I envy people who have canopies of wisteria in their gardens – the soft old-lady violet colour is just beginning to appear around town now, and then in a flash it will fade and wilt before the second, weaker blossoming.
It’s Sunday lunchtime, I cycle down a street with multiple bars where men throng outside in muted joy. They shout-speak to each other in Spanish and Portuguese.
At the market in Saint-Michel an old man on a bench in conversation with a similar old man. They are both wearing all-over grey. The first man holds a vertical forefinger in front of his lips and the conversation seems to take a confidential turn. The finger looks as if it has seen service on building sites.
That moment at airport arrivals when you catch sight of a face that you know by heart but have not seen in several months. In a split second you drink in those beloved features and register the slight changes that have come about.