Jays in the garden (I only found out they were jays last year, but they're wild like something out of a zoo, or something that got lost on its way to Africa).
Brightly coloured fine leather gloves. My current ones are a sort of acid green and even the children covet them.
Relics, the grislier the better, but especially whole preserved digits, limbs, or indeed saints.
Orange spine Penguin PG Wodehouse books, inherited from my parents.
Kenneth from 30 Rock.
Having enough scissors.
Béchamel with spinach and a pinch of nutmeg or mace. I had this in a pasta gratin last night in front of that ludicrous Richard III documentary with a nice glass of cheap red wine.
Spotting tiny dirty brown mice, all busy and surprising, on the Central Line tracks.
And getting divebombed by packs of delinquent parakeets.
The smell of stables, straw and turpentine and leather and dust and warm horse.
The smell of sugar beet on damp North Yorkshire autumn air, even though it is actually an awful smell.
Or the smell of After Eights on cold North Yorkshire winter nights, which is wholly delicious.
The smell of Soho on hot summer evenings before it all kicks off: spice and posh cologne and beer and hair product and hot tarmac.
3/4 length sleeves.
The produce tent at village shows. And the tea tent, actually. And the 'dog that looks most like its owner' class.
Christine Ferber rhubarb jam.
Vetiver (especially Miller Harris Vetiver Bourbon).
Warm pub gin and tonics with the barest sliver of melted ice and a crappy half slice of lemon.
With a packet of Walkers Cheese and Onion. (Oh god I want this so much now).
Sunday breakfast at Midi market, Moroccan pancake with honey and a glass of sweet mint tea for €1,25.
The word 'baleful'.
Working at my kitchen table. I have a perfectly good office, but I just can't resist. This morning the light was just beautiful, with a tiny dusting of snow and a fat pigeon making its rounds. Here is a terrible picture of it.
You can just see a fat pigeon sitting on the wall to the right.
Mexican wrestling outfits.
Tiny dark red Spartan apples.Urban foxes, all insolent and unruffled and rifling through your binbags.
I would love to hear yours, ideally avoiding your top five or ten. The weirder the better.