Last night, when I was busy cooking dinner, the doorbell rang. Nobody seemed to be bothered to get it so I had to run up the stairs to the door (after turning the hobs off). Feeling unappreciated and disgruntled, I was shocked to see a charming man in his forties, in running gear, sweating but a big smile on his face, carrying a lovely bunch of flowers on my doorstep.
For you, he said.
It’s been ages since anyone bought me let alone a beautiful, hand-tied bouquet.
He is my neighbour. My daughter babysits his little dog for him. I baked him some cookies. Hence the flowers.
“Hint, hint,” I said to Him Indoors.
Hmmmm, he replied, looking at the glorious bouquet with a beady eye. Nonetheless, he came back from his evening run with a crushed frangipani flower for me.
“This will do?” He asked with a grin.
But there is a bloom he gave me from a long time ago which I cherish. It was a single yellow rose to signify our enduring friendship: when we had nothing, we always did have friendship to see us through. And that, is what I cherish more than anything, to have a man I can tell simply everything to, who is neither shocked nor upset nor offended by the darkness of my soul, but who laughs the darkness away with his oh, so English silliness. (Photo: yellow roses in Battersea)
But perhaps the most precious flowers that bloom in my heart are these from my mother’s backyard, which my father picked and put in my old room when I came home ❤