November arrives, the evenings draw in, and sometimes the sadness we've been keeping busy enough to outrun finally catches up. On missing my dad, embracing my inner Stepford wife (cleaning excluded), and attempting to fight the darkness with cake and an unreasonable number of fairy lights.

A six-year-old, a pile of flowers and absolutely no interest in subtlety.

Everyday magic is usually less moonlit ritual and more finding a place to tuck the key when your dress has no pockets.