Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
Someone was asking how the back garden of our compact but adorable city apartment was doing, so here it is. This photo is so appallingly bad that I have not even bothered to improve it with an edit.
I cannot begin to tell anyone who has not experienced Night-Scented Stock, how wonderful this modest little flowering plant is.
Every Spring I sow a handful of tiny seeds into a bit of earth, then a few weeks later I am rewarded with the glorious, godly, powerful but wistfully transient perfume, and I don't even have to go to the trouble of boiling up whale vomit. If the last observation seems a little cryptic to you, go to Sarah's last post for an explanation.
This morning, I went into the kitchen to find that the flowers had spent all night filling up the room with it, and by the time I got to them, they had ceased production and were curled-up to sleep after the night-shift.
You know those Elizabethan paintings of handsome, young men standing in meadows of little English flowers, or the Minoan, Greek and Roman wall-paintings of swallows flying over wild flower fields? These are the celebrations of seasonality, and the comfort and reassurance that they bring is refreshed every year, and have been for thousands upon thousands of years.
I despise Disney for what they did to Winnie the Pooh, and I despise the Dutch flower industry for what they have done to the simple but profoundly deep pleasures of seasonality.