There are days when gratitude is all that matters. Not for that for which you can count, or for an abundance of material things, but for kind words, virtual hugs and a shoulder to lean on at the end of the day.

For the cushions that prop me up as I type, cosy under blankets, sipping at hot lemonade to chase away the niggle of a cold. For geranium hand cream, Jan Struther stories, and the realisation that where once I thought life was too short to read the same book twice, I now understand that those literary lessons we treasured when we are younger eventually become our guiding lights.