Okay, something daft made me ridiculously happy yesterday.
I had to demolish some lovely stone cladding in my living room (my house had been done up in the 70's in the "fake country cottage" style). So, fo quite a while I had to live in what looked like a building site. All moveable furniture left the room - including my big bookcase.
I love that bookcase. Mostly because my father-in-law made it for us not long after we were married, and since he died only a few years later, it feels good to have something that reminds us of him as a very central thing in our lives.
But yesterday, it was just the sheer joy of seeing the bookcase full of books and sitting in my living room that made me smile. I hadn't realised how much I had missed it until it was back. There is something strangely comforting about seeing row upon row of books all waiting eagerly to be read (or re-read, most likely). I keep looking at it and feeling all warm inside.