The last thing I felt like doing today was going out to teach. Apart from the fact that my pupil is a spoilt, sullen fourteen-year-old boy who practises insolence far more than he ever does his English conjugations, the weather was wet and raw – April’s spiteful revenge on us for the lovely sunlit days we enjoyed in March. Inevitably, I have caught cold, and have been headachy and snivelly for the past two days. All I wanted was to stay in bed and read.
On my way back home several hours later, I decided that, what the hell, I deserved a treat, so I stopped off at the fancy florist’s near my bus stop and splurged on a bunch of pink and white lisianthus. There’s nothing like buying flowers to put me in a good mood! I paid the exorbitant price without batting an eyelash and, dodging raindrops, I dashed across the street to catch my bus. Juggling three bags of groceries, my umbrella, and the flowers wasn’t easy but I managed to make it home without dropping anything…
As I returned my little dog’s enthusiastic greeting (and demands for dinner!) and unpacked my purchases, a ray of evening sun struggled through the clouds and illumined my bouquet, sending me rushing for the camera:
Despite the weather, it seems spring crept into my kitchen after all. My rose-patterned teacup is filled with Dammann’s “Thé Bulgare”, a delectable blend of China and Ceylon teas flavoured with raspberry, sanguinello orange, orange peel, and red rose petals. And near at hand is my book of the week, Helen Humphreys’ The Lost Garden: set in Devon in spring 1941, it features Land Girls, the Royal Horticultural Society, roses, and Virginia Woolf – a combination guaranteed to attract my attention, even without the lovely dust-jacket!
© Florence Berlioz 2012