Weeks like this

I usually have my posts written early in the week; my thoughts corralled, my photos chosen and edited, scheduled for publication at 5am on a Saturday. In my more glorious delusions of grandeur, I picture my loyal readers eagerly reaching for their phones as soon as they wake, desperate to hear my thoughts and musings for the week—preferably in place of current world events.

But this week? This week I am sitting here late Saturday morning, reflecting on the days that have been. A week filled with uncertainties—both personal and global—over which I have no control. A week where more than a few tears were shed, sleep was lost, and words simply wouldn’t come.

So, in a week like this, I found myself rearranging the house, keeping busy in an attempt to keep the Big Thoughts at bay.

I spent the recent Easter long weekend refining our outdoor spaces. Sweeping and power washing the veranda, editing the motley assortment of empty pots near the front gate and seeing the enormous difference in how the space not only looks, but feels.

I will admit that I indulged in some retail therapy—after all, it is my show of support to the economy (the country’s, if not mine). But for a very reasonable sum, both the front and back entrances to the house now feel… loved.

And now, when I pass through the front gate, I feel it. That small, unexpected lift. A sense of pride that my vision—rather modest in the greater scheme of things—has come to fruition.

A dear friend came over one afternoon, both of us carrying the weight of situations we never thought we would find ourselves in. We had hot cross buns, cups of tea, and because it was Easter, tiny chocolate eggs. Fruit buns and chocolate never solved any problems, but as far as I know, they never added to them either, and they were perfect. I had set the table with flowers and a cloth. Not because the occasion demanded it, but because we needed it.

Flowers, tea, and quiet company.
A reminder that we are worthy of beautiful things.

We sat, and talked, and cried—and, speaking only for myself, I felt lighter for it.

Of course, there were lighter moments too. Afternoons spent watching Bridgerton with friends, wrapped up in its colour and costumes. I love that in the Bridgerton universe there are flowers or cakes on every available flat surface—it is a glorious, sumptuous sight. For me, the storyline happily takes a back seat to the interiors.

There was also an afternoon spent at my favourite Adelaide destination, Carrick Hill, where for a couple of hours I could pretend I was visiting a stately home in England, and a wonderful afternoon tea at my parents. As usual the table was a visual feast, the colours and setting were are a true testament to the celebration that the occasion warranted. The time I spend with my family is always my time well spent.

I have drafted and redrafted menus for my Autumn Harvest dinner, researched and refined colour palettes, gathered décor pieces then rearranged, and reconsidered them. That familiar thrill of anticipation has begun to build—the quiet pleasure of knowing that something beautiful is taking shape, layer by layer.

The planning and anticipation are almost my favourite parts of hosting. Fiddling with glassware and candles, seeing if they twinkle sufficiently—it brings me a surprising amount of satisfaction.

And then, a birthday dinner for my daughter. Marking her place in the world in the simplest and most important way: by showing up, by celebrating, by saying this matters.

The rich warm colours of the Hoosegow Charcoal restaurant. The ambience certainly added to our enjoyment of a wonderful night out.

She is somewhat diffident about birthdays, so it felt fitting that this dinner was just the three of us who were in the room when she was born. We had a wonderful meal at Hoosegow Charcoal Restaurant—generous servings, outrageously good food, and service well above par.

My son, dressed for his school formal, and his friends choosing to come to our house to get ready for their big night was also a lighter moment. Seeing these young men—some of whom I have known since kindergarten—looking elegant and dapper was a wonderful thing.

Looking back, it wasn’t an empty week at all. It was full of opportunities to make choices that made things a little more beautiful than they needed to be.

Not because everything felt easy.
But because it didn’t.

My dear squirrel has found a new home. The possum must not get any ideas about this.