I held a little pinch pot made by Hackney-based ceramicist, Ana Kerin the other day, and felt inspired to whip up some bowls of my own. They were small and wonky, with rims that looked unfinished. It was the imperfection, and the artist’s celebration of that imperfection, that I was drawn to. And yet, in my own attempts, I tinkered, smoothed and polished away all the lumps and bumps that I had so enjoyed in Kerin’s work. We’re so forgiving, embracing even, of another maker’s marks. Finger prints. Wonky rims. Scratchy signatures. But in our own work, we see flaws. Mistakes. Kerin’s style, confidence,  is one I aspire to. I’m on my way; practice makes more practice.

This beautiful painting by Alexandre Benois, titled “the king walked in any weather” was just the jolt I needed this morning as I dressed for the elements. I’ve become a bit too fair-weather in recent years, opting for taxis and transit over facing the cold on foot. So, I’m stocking up on Uniqlo thermals, and making this the winter I walk in any weather.

There’s something surreal about the merging of seasons, when one comes too early, or another stays too late. When the pigment of linden leaves has stained the snow chartreuse, and the black eyed susans are holding on for dear life. Similarly, late September heat waves always feel strange amidst a swirl of falling leaves. It’s strange and beautiful and unsettling, and a reminder that anything is possible, and that sometimes, surrendering to the surreal is all we can do.

A few days ago, the trees outside my window, the ones that make me feel like we’re living in a tree house, were chock full of golden leaves. Today, their empty branches are cradling mounds of snow. It’s a shock to the system when the season change is so swift, when we switch from woolly sweaters to giant puffas in a day. It’s discombobulating. But exciting, too. Who isn’t a little awestruck by the first fall of snow?

One of the many things I love about my brother is his love for my three children. He loves me and Jason so much, it was always a given that he would love any child we made. I thought that becoming a parent might make Alex a little less involved in his nieces and nephew. That would have been a natural progression. But since having a daughter of his own, he is just as present. Just as proud. He is exactly the parent I imagined he would be — not too dissimilar to the uncle he is. He plays. Really plays. And he pays attention to all the details. Children feel secure with Alex. He makes them feel like they are a privilege to be around. He came to visit us this weekend from London, and within minutes of arrival we were all playing blind man’s buff. He laughs at children’s silliness from the depths of his belly, and listens to their stories with the engagement of a journalist. He’s responsible, reliable and very funny, all traits that kids like in an adult. I wish we all lived closer, but we make the time count.