A golden little thread.

 Saturday 27th September 2025

“What are your plans for today?” Mum asked as I came into the kitchen this morning, still half-blurred with sleep. She was already busy sorting out breakfast. I say sorting out for everyone else, because in truth it’s only “we” in the loosest sense—I always stick with porridge, while the others tuck into what’s grandly called a full English.

The question caught me off guard. I honestly think it’s the first time since being here that the decision of how to spend my day has been placed directly into my own hands. Normally, Mum and Dad have a knack for seeing that my hours are spoken for before I’ve even realised it. It’s not something I’ve ever minded; I’ve always been content to follow along. But standing there this morning with my mouth half open and no quick answer at the ready, I suddenly found myself aware of the choice—and a little lost because of it.

Mum, of course, didn’t leave me stranded for long. A couple of seconds of silence was more than enough for her to step in with ideas, for which I was secretly grateful.

“If you aren’t going to the stables, how about making yourself useful by stewing some pears and those windfall apples from the garden for freezing?”

I wasn’t sure what stewing fruit involved, but it sounded a lot easier than trying to puzzle out my own plans.

“Yes, sure,” I said, probably a bit too relieved.

“You mean, yes Mum, that’s a good idea. I’m sure they’ll come in very useful for pies and suchlike next year.” She has this way of gently pulling me up whenever my words veer into what she calls “lazy speak.”

So I grinned and gave her my best tongue-in-cheek reply:

“What a wonderful idea, Mum. You do come up with the best suggestions. I’d be delighted to do that little job for you.”

“Less of your cheek, young madam,” she said with a smile that gave her away.

And just like that, the whole exchange turned into a bit of fun, the kind that sets a cheerful tone for the day ahead.

By the time I’d finished, there were six neat bags of stewed fruit for the freezer—two of apples, two of pears, and two mixed. And as a bonus, enough left over for a pair of pies: one for our lunch tomorrow, and one I carried down to Rob at the stables in the afternoon.

Two pans of fruit ready for cooking, I refill both pans twice more.

It was a simple sort of day, the kind where small jobs fill the hours without fuss or hurry. And as the light began to dip, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet contentment: One pie delivered and one on the counter waiting to be eaten, Mum pleased with the freezer now stocked for winter, and me glad to have been part of it all. A golden little thread of homeliness woven into the fabric of the day.