Handel from Racha Arodaky

One of my favourite pianists at the moment. There's a certain fragility within her sound that's ineffable, a purity that's rare and leaves you wanting to hear more. So to follow Handel, here's another video: the sound quality isn't top-notch (blame YouTube) but this recording made me see that Scarlatti's piano pieces have their own magical beauty; previously I had written them off. Unfairly, it's probably true, as I can't claim to have listened to all 666 of his piano sonatas... that's a project for a rainy day or two.

Green shoots

I'm growing an amaryllis. Not blessed with the world's greenest fingers – previous horticultural attempts include a tomato plant that shrivelled up in the cracked soil one hot summer, neglected and parched; and a bryophyllum grown for school biology that failed to divide and flourish. I'm pretty pleased and even more surprised, then, that the amaryllis has been alive for at least three weeks. At first it was a bulb in a pot – little visible interest. Next the oval-shaped tips of two stems appeared, looking a little like lobster pincers. Diligently, I remembered to water the amaryllis – don't overwater, the instructions firmly remind. The stems grew, coloured a young green, stretched like arms reaching up, hands together in prayer. To be fair, with my track record, I'd be praying too.

Elgar for Friday

Cellist Andreas Brantelid. With his refined, expressive, aristocratic playing, he makes the cello sing with cherry-hued tones. Remember his name.

Snow long

Left the wellies at work, no longer need to walk like a penguin… it can only mean one thing: the snow is melting.

Cold times

Contemplating the purchase of ice skates in order to get work tomorrow. Or a toboggan. Wellies just aren't cutting it on the Bristol Alps. Home is at the top of the hill, work at the bottom, it's downhill sheets of ice all the way. Bit of a no-brainer...

Natural habitat

One of the hazards – or highlights, depending on your point of view – of living in Bristol is inadvertently finding yourself on TV. It's not the world-famous BBC Natural History Unit, based on Whiteladies Road, and presumably where they keep David Attenborogh in deep freeze, ready for his next voiceover, that's behind this possibility of small-screen fame. Oh no. It's the nice people from the BBC filming the never-ending hospital drama Casualty, and Mistresses, the British answer to Sex and the City, that you've got to watch out for, not to mention the E4 crews behind the drug and sex-fuelled teen drama Skins. Round-about-M-list Celebrity spotting is, in fact, pretty normal in Brizzle. A friend swears she's being stalked by an actress from Skins; last year a Casualty actress turned up at a friend's party; and on a trip to the local supermarket last summer I spotted the ace of spades of Bristol actorati: Charlie Fairhead. Wearing a thick, dark coat and hat with ear flaps, despite the sweltering weather. Next time stick to the sunglasses like every other sleb, Charlie.

On my new route to work (oh yes, a new route. That's worth a post in itself. There's no escape), therefore, I wasn't overly surprised when I spotted a couple more Casualty actors loitering on a street corner. Granted, 9am on a weekday morning seems an odd time to loiter, but who's to judge? I continued to meander along. What beautiful houses, I thought. Gorgeous Georgian architecture. Who once lived here, I pondered. And what was that large crowd doing on the pavement on the other side of the road? Looks like they're waiting for something. But what? Odd they're not talking at all. I kept walking. More vaguely familiar people, this time being prepped by an animated individual.The penny dropped. Why hadn't they shut off the road? I felt the eyes of the crowd on me as I continued to walk by. The road panned out ahead. Did it even end? Better just keep going. As I turned the corner a man in a big waterproof jacket picked up his walkie-talkie. 'Girl's gone'.

Casualty might have shunned my acting ability, but apparently Raymond Blanc's Bristol-based The Restuarant, in which couples compete to go into business with the culinary Frenchie, thought otherwise. According to a reliable source, I've wasted a good minute of the meagre 15 minutes of fame we're all allocated in this lifetime walking down a road in a reality TV show. There's a tale to tell the grandchildren.