A slow dance. Skating sounds. Thoughts of my own answers to the questions. Realising that I belong to a large public who use their labour in society. Feeling very small and privileged to see such things. An interview with an older man about the 1974 eruption of Fuego in his garden. Walking into the unexpected playfulness of a machine blowing colourful confetti. Trees resprouting after an intense fire. The sink in the bathroom – what’s that third tap for? – it’s a secret. Voices moving from calm to not in discussion and debate. The presence of the audience around. Patterns left by centrifuges that have spun out of control and careered across the floor of a lab in Brussels, leaving gouges in the lino – random curves, circles, and lines, like a painting slowly emerging over the years. The smiles of my PhD supervisor and the crystallographer who ran the scans. A woman communicating in British Sign Language. Seeing live people and the live feed at the same time. Seeing washed up whales and penguins. The crystal structure of the novel molecule. Butter sandwiches. A presentation on the origins of the universe where order was created out of chaos. The interaction between the participants, facilitator, and audience. Hiking with a book on animal behaviour, alone and alive. Leaves changing colour in autumn. Different accents. The words “no-one has ever seen this before”. Knowing that the orangey yellow donut in the picture is a black hole. Looking at 30 micron-thick sections of rock whilst listening to music on my headphones. Standing on the platform under the bridge, over the gorge, with the void beneath. A priest sharing with honesty and vulnerability. Nature revealed by Scanning Tunnelling Microscopy. Playing with magnets, metal clanging.  Whatever mutual chemical or hormone release happens when people pet dogs. My code working after hours of trial and error. The history of the building and architecture. The conversation becoming more human and equal. Binge watching Robert Winston’s The Human Body in the early noughties. A woman explaining how women give birth. At the end, when the performers repeated all of the questions they had asked across the day, and I found myself remembering who had answered, and how it had affected them, and the room, and me. The symmetry of the structure and patterns and patterns inside patterns. An inflatable helter-skelter going up and three people going down. The sound of the wind in the Swiss Alps. An owl in a biology lab (tawny I think). Microbes under a microscope. The genuine answers of an ex-prisoner who was so true to himself and so open to others. Michael’s beautiful striped jumper. The bright green and rounded plants against the stark lines of white benches and seriousness of people working in a lab. Small looks between me and other audience members. Realising that a synthetic route can be beautiful, funny, and clever in the same way that a sentence can. A respectful nervousness in the performance space. A single piece of confetti falling from the ceiling in a slow dance while an astrophysicist talked about the creation of the universe. Light up roller skates, the white hair of a groomed dog, a brightly coloured lambswool jumper, a heavy pair of work boots, and a pair of glasses. A sad happiness. A chorus of voices. Stopping to listen to real life. Information is beautiful. Reading about indigenous scientific approaches to the environment. Research on the way the engineering processes behind cancer harming and killing bacteria perfectly align. Two men boxing – one observing Ramadan, the other moved by wildflower meadows. A singing voice at the end of a long journey. Underwater speakers. A communal meal with strangers. Adjustments to plots to make the networks easier to see. Discovering kinship with the environment. Close mic’d voices. Subdued lights. Data converted into music. A volcano producing two entirely different products from two mouths at the same time. Two unlikely people exchanging a moment of care. A droplet of water on a nasturtium leaf, every single time. An MP, an imam, and a drug dealer in conversation. A ball pool for babies. A ball of light above a bucket of water. The hum of a projector in a classroom.  The enthusiasm of Brian Cox when he talks about planets and space – I understand him, I see it too – and that makes me tear up. The success of a great machine that I built to deliver a slice of lemon to a drink. Spiralling, larval corals. Spiralling aircon. A tutor at Oxford explaining the spin states of electrons and feeling suddenly connected to the subatomic world. Getting ready for an experiment in the Amazon Rainforest at 5am as the sun rose and howler monkeys cried in the distance. The quiet dignity of the man in the boiler suit. The twinkling formations of coloured crystals I grew as a child and the sense that anything was possible. The moment of things, the static. An ending that honoured the day. When the James Webb space telescope was successfully launched without blowing up. Your Inner Fish by Neil Shubin. Flowers being passed around – we each turned to our neighbour and said, “there you go”. The silence of the audience – they were like grown-ups watching children at Christmas. Confetti on the floor and tables. Lights being turned off around me. How perfectly chemicals react in your body to transport oxygen around your blood. A projected sunset. A daughter with her boyfriend watching her dad answering questions about love.