Ballerina, Queen of Night and Barcelona tulips.
Last Sunday was real sunhat weather.
I sat on the grass weeding, low enough to smell the soft, sweet scent of the orange Ballerina tulips and to enjoy the dazzle of their lily-shaped heads against the fat cups of purple Queen of Night and shriek pink Barcelona. I love to sit on the grass. You see things differently there.
Beautiful shriek-pink Barcelona tulips.
As I pulled out soft-leaved, milky-rooted dandelions and tiny sycamore seedlings, music drifted across the wall, through the trellis and over the roses. Our neighbours are in a bluegrass band. They’re really good. The plaintive sounds of the fiddle, guitar and banjo pulled the hipsters who live on the other side of us from their beds and onto their little roof terrace. Pale chested boys and girls with last night’s mascara smudged around their pretty eyes sat and watched, listened. When they came to the end of their first song, we all applauded.
Gentle wisps of smoke from our Turkish neighbours’ barbecue curled deliciously into the warm afternoon air.
And in that moment, I just fell for London really hard and all over again.
Cherry blossom, before…
…and after the wind.
Barney – is it the demise of the blossom, or the bluegrass music that’s making him so mournful?