I don't need much to give my mind delights that I can revisit in deep night with deep pleasure. Mind you, I also wonder about a mind that finds such easy, minute enjoyment.

Stair light
It all began when the light above the stove blew. Over three days of greasy groping, I worked out how to slide the cover off and remove the dead globe. My confidence grew.
At the bottom of my stairs I have a very blingy mini-chandelier. For ten years it has been globeless and I've fumbled my way upstairs in the dark, or made a huge effort to remember to take my head-torch on a rare after-dark journey. Why didn't I replace the globe? It looked like an odd size and I didn't want a collection of misfits. To peer under the chandelier skirt required me to balance on a milk crate on one of those turning-corners, wedge-shaped stairs. All too hard!
Until a recent return-from-Warsaw access of fix-the-house. I risked the balancing act; ascertained that it was a bayonet pin I needed and risked spending $5 on a globe that might be wrong. I balanced again, vicariously this time, dragooning a passing visitor, and watched as he twisted the globe into place. Suddenly the dark abyss of the stair well became a warm pool of light, and I developed the habit of switching the light on every time I passed the top of the stairs, gazing into the light pool as I do into rock pools.
Having had the let-there-be-light experience, I became addicted. Three outside lights had also gone dark, so I called the electrician to check and re-illuminate them too.
Driving home from book club and a sleepover, I decided I'd better buy the two new tyres that I probably needed for my Queensland trip. I didn't want to. I was in the middle of finalising flights and accommodation for Warsaw and I needed an uncluttered mind for final decisions. But I didn't want a blow-out on the Pacific Highway either.
So I pulled into Glasshouse Rocks Rd, and at the trye replacers I found an unexpected outdoor office space where I could sit at a table in the sun under my straw hat and make those decisions and bookings via my iPad. I even tracked down the link to information about applying for a 10 year Polish visa, confident that my one-year Visa D was in the mail. I had time to soak up the sun and watch the passing parade: the man, strapped for cash, weighing up options at the counter in a slow drawl: the woman with black nail polish on her toenails and mobile in hand; the car that stopped and five minutes later engine-coughed; the old couple who had to release themselves from their vehicle slowly and uncertainly.
As I sat idly and a bit sun-dopey, I saw a flourishing patch of parsley in the most unlikely place. It was growing out of the paving hard against the brick wall. It matched my gold standard for parsley, in the garden at the Blue Earth cafe in Bodalla: thick, green, tightly curled, watered occasionally by hand but mostly by heaven, and obviously finding that place in the sun as congenial as I did.
I left with two new tyres and a bunch of parsley to sprinkle thickly over Saturday morning's steamed veggies.