There's baskets of knitting, the green blanket and the blue one, one nearly done, one just begun. Scissors. Loaves of bread and anti inflammatories and sunglasses and hats. Oat milk and teabags.

Spare clothes, for painting, for cold weather, for hot weather. Trainers and boots and various pairs of socks, flip flops, sunblock. Panadol just in case. Deodorant. I leave the basket by the front door at night and throw things I'll need for the next day in it. It's the best organisation trick I've found.

Buckets of swedes and fennel and eggs.

I have baskets of limes. Last week I gave them to a Thai food stall in exchange for dinner. Jungle curry leaked onto the rattan.

I bring buckets of hope. Buckets of energy. Buckets of love. They also can arrive in baskets. Either works.

I philosophise - you empty your basket & life fills it up.

My grandson agrees we will need a bucket and spade to take to the beach.

I fill baskets with pine cones - the nights are still cold, and the fire lights quickly with them.

Buckets of compost, worm castings, chicken straw, grass clippings, broad leaf weeds for the compost at the new place. The two gardens are littered with coloured tubs - red and green and grey, some split and leaking water, some containing fruit trees and other stolen plants I am moving from inland to coast.

There's a bucket with my wetsuit and gloves and booties and hood that stink and need rinsing out with bicarb and vinegar. Winter is nearly over, officially. I will change suits and store the cold weather rubber in another tub.

I bring baskets of food, for when we're hungry - crisps and dips, oranges and bananas, nuts, dates. Pasta and sauce for tea with salad on the deck. A bottle of water for the beach, in case. It must always be full.

There's a bucket of grief I still carry for my father. Sometimes it splashes out, sometimes the surface of it is calm, like a mirror, like a lake.