In this fantasy, I keep fresh herbs in the freezer.
I’ve gained enough wisdom to accept that potted plants will always wither on my windowsill. It’s okay.
There is perfect satisfaction as I crumble frosted foliage between my fingers.
I savour the slow release of aroma as I watch lively greens unthaw, and then melt into a wholesome meal.
I’m always in heels. My calves are bare and smooth.
Elegant hems of feminine fabrics graze my soft knees.
My hair is long but neat. I wear make-up but not too much.
I smell of my mum’s moisturiser and I regularly wash my hands.
I catch myself smiling when I look in the mirror.
I wear loose warm knits. I give the safest hugs.
It’s sunny most days. I sit at the kitchen table and sip milky coffee.
I thumb through a newspaper; its fresh ink is tacky on my fingers.
A cryptic crossword keeps me busy until mid-morning but I’m always able to complete it.
On the days when it rains, I listen. Polite droplets whisper good morning against the glass of my streak-less windows.
There is quiet applause from the trees outside as their leaves shake off the downpour.
I always feel inspired.
In this fantasy, the spices in my cupboard are kept in matching glass jars.
I have one set of cutlery. Every utensil fits my hand precisely and is just the right weight.
I buy myself flowers. I make eggs for breakfast.
The yolks are always runny and the whites are always set.