There is comfort in the consistency of cycles and familiarity. In knowing that we willingly choose some parts of life to remain steady. The same brand of tea, the same colour and cut of shirt – and sometimes the same paint colour.

Two courgettes from the farmer’s market. A nub of local cheese from last night’s dinner. A jar of good white beans. Some pickles. A root around the salad drawer finds an onion, a papery clove of garlic and a forgotten bottle of Sussex fizz.

Inside my wonky childhood memory, we had twenty seven fruit trees in our back yard. I’m sure it wasn’t that precise number – likely more, but still there was an incredibly splendid feeling of towering trees and surging vines.

It is easy to be ensnared by the desire for more. More rooms, more money to buy more things to fill those rooms and more recognition for having said ‘things’. Sometimes this ‘more’ is thought of as abundant and to have less than this feels meagre.