After rain, a city briefly reorganises itself.
People adjust their pace. Light shifts register. Puddles gather what the pavement has shed and hold it still for a moment — lanterns, windows, passing figures — before everything resumes.
Valentine’s Day has a way of getting loud.
Every year, it arrives wrapped in urgency — bigger gestures, bolder colours, grander declarations. Cards shout, flowers compete, and love is often measured by how much space it takes up.
But I’ve always been more interested in the quieter moments.
It all started, as these things often do, with a simple question.
A customer got in touch asking if I could make some vegan cake pops for a birthday.
Burns Night has never been about spectacle. At its heart, it is a moment to pause — to read, to listen, to raise a glass, and to remember why certain traditions endure.
Most ideas aren’t bad.
They’re just not necessary.
That took me longer to understand than it should have. Enthusiasm is persuasive. It arrives early, speaks confidently, and insists that everything deserves a chance. But I’ve learned that enthusiasm alone is a poor editor. It’s generous when it should be selective.