British Flowers Week 2018: Not quite orange blossom

Today's post is about philadelpus, also known as mock orange because it has an incredible scent like orange blossom. It grows tall and it looks beautiful against a clear blue sky. It also looks gorgeous massed together in an arrangement.

It looks beautiful on its own or mixed with a couple of other colours. In the picture below it's with physocarpus.

Close up:

Here it is with delicate nigella (which I no longer have this year after a fox or two jumped all over them...I was not impressed!):

I wanted to use a Snapple bottle because of the Clueless line: "I gave him my lemon Snapple and I took his sucky Italian roast." The character Cher uses her unwanted thermos of coffee to try to set up two teachers on a coffee date.

This was for British Flowers Week a few years ago - with white alliums, jasmine, and ammi. The beautiful jar is orange blossom honey from Tiptree. And the lovely scent of mock orange and jasmine overpowers the not-so-nice scent of alliums!

The primroses were over

“The primroses were over. Towards the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a brambly ditch beyond, only a few fading patches of pale yellow still showed among the dog's mercury and oak-tree roots. On the other side of the fence, the upper part of the field was full of rabbit-holes. In places the grass was gone altogether and everywhere there were clusters of dry droppings, through which nothing but the ragwort would grow.”

Richard Adams, Watership Down

I have been terrible at blogging the past year, but I always do a post for World Book Day – so I want to keep up with tradition. It’s nice to look back and see the books I chose before. 2012 was Nineteen Eighteen-Four (and how many times has that book been mentioned in the last year?), 2013 was Gone with the Wind, 2014 was Elizabeth Barrett’s Sonnets from the Portuguese, 2015 was The Go-Between, and last year was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

A couple of days after Christmas last year, I heard the news that Richard Adams had died on Christmas Eve. He was 96. At the bottom of this post is my copy of Watership Down, which my mother bought me in John Lewis on Oxford Street, back in the 1980s when its children's department included books. Richard was the only person I really wanted to write a fan letter to…but I never knew what to say, so I didn't. I know he had loads of fan mail, so mine wouldn't have made much difference to him, but I felt a huge pang of regret on the 27th of December. 96 is a fantastic age to live to, but death is loss no matter what age, and I think the little girl in me imagined he was as immortal as Father Christmas. I had read interviews with him after his 90th birthday and a couple of years ago, and he was as sharp and eloquent as ever.

I read Watership Down after seeing the 1978 animated film. I fell in love with both. As cute as he was, I was never a fan of Thumper from Bambi; sarcastic rabbits like Bugs Bunny and intelligent, kickass rabbits like Bigwig and Hyzenthlay were more my scene. There was also something Rick and Ilsa from Casablanca about the last two. Now when I watch The Walking Dead, so much of that epic, apocalyptic story reminds me of Watership Down – the constant vigilance against danger, being cautious but hopeful when meeting new characters, the deaths and losses, and the blood. I used to hide behind the curtains the first few times I watched the final showdown between General Woundwort and the dog in the film. Similarly, I used to hide behind my hands when I first watched the zombie scenes in the TV show, before I got used to them.

“When you’re little…you don’t distinguish between fiction and reality,” Richard said a few years ago. “It’s all reality. And thank goodness for that. I do not believe in talking down to children. Readers like to be upset, excited and bowled over. I can remember weeping when I was little at upsetting things that were read to me, but fortunately my mother and father were wise enough to keep going.”

His daughter Juliet urged him to write down the epic rabbit story he’d told her and her sister during long car journeys, and eventually he started writing every evening. ‘Asked if he enjoyed writing it, his response is quick and pithy. “No, I hated it. To be quite frank, writing is bloody hard work. But I did enjoy that I had the guts to persevere with it.”’

I am so glad he did.

My Fair Lady

When I wrote the date this morning, I thought of one thing: this is the day Audrey Hepburn died.

I was a secondary schoolkid and it was the first time I noticed the date of someone famous dying. I had seen My Fair Lady a dozen times and I loved the setting (the old Covent Garden flower market!), the humour, and the stunning outfits. (I wasn't discerning enough to mind her dodgy Cockney accent at that age.)

She later presented a documentary about gardens, and gardens were something that gave her pleasure and comfort. It's reflected in the flower world: She has a daylily named after her, a hybrid tulip named after her - and this short piece of film from 1990 shows her love and her sense of humour during the dedication ceremony. She also has a hybrid tea rose named after her.

The photo at the top is taken from this UNICEF article - she became a Goodwill Ambassador in 1989, and some of my last memories of her while she was alive are footage of her working for UNICEF. I saw that side of her years before I saw her Holly Golightly.

"I can testify to what UNICEF means to children, because I was among those who received food and medical relief right after World War II".

I don't know what Audrey would have made of the news in America today. I'm not as nice as she was, but I've always wanted to be a good person, and I do try to help others when I'm able to. I'll work at the hospice today and I'll donate to a foodbank when I do my food shopping. And I'll look after myself as well.

"Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, it's at the end of your arm. As you get older, remember you have another hand: The first is to help yourself, the second is to help others."

January joy

It's the last day of January, which means there are just over five months until my university research project is due in. I remember thinking we had almost a year...but now I am regretting my complacent start to the project last autumn! In happier time-travelling news, it is less than two months until British Summer Time. The days are already feeling a teeny bit longer, which is helping me to feel sunnier, even though I hate the cloudy, grey days we keep having.

I saw the film Joy on New Year's Day, and it was a great film to start the year - Jennifer Lawrence is brilliantly understated and made me feel optimistic and enthusiastic about new beginnings and second chances. Even though film awards are a load of nonsense (I've never felt inclined to watch Paul Haggis's Crash after seeing it at the cinema, but I have watched Brokeback Mountain several times since I saw it at the Odeon Panton Street), I'm afraid I get totally swept up in the hype, and end up disappointed every year! I would love Inside Out to win Best Original Screenplay, but I'm sure it won't. I would rather Jennifer Lawrence be nominated for her incredible acting in the last Hunger Games film than Joy, but I think awarding bodies are too snobby sometimes. I do hope Brie Larson wins Best Acting awards for her role in Room, though - she also played a character called Joy, and the film, despite the traumatic subject matter, was beautiful and sensitive and hopeful. There was a lovely atmosphere amongst the audience in Greenwich when I watched it. We cried, we laughed, we held our breath, we sighed with relief, and we cried some more.

I bought a bunch of Lincolnshire daffodils from the garden centre after shopping for late summer bulbs. The flowers were not quite "Garden Fresh", but they were close enough! I've loved daffodils ever since my ex (Welsh) boyfriend bought me some for St David's Day - the first flowers a boy bought me. The ones I bought this week had a faint scent that was more noticeable when you first stepped in the room.

The Red Shoes

A few years ago, I went through a wonderful, creative period in the spring and summer. I had been going to random classes - tap dancing, ballet, flamenco, improvisation, screen acting, screen writing - and I was writing and drawing much more. I read a book called The Creative Screenwriter by Zara Waldeback and Craig Batty, and there was an exercise where you choose three nouns and write a short story with them. I wasn't sure how creative I would be if I chose the words myself, so I asked friends to give me three words that I could use. It was a great exercise, and some of the short stories ended up becoming three-chapter stories or longer stories which I kept adding to.

The story below was written after being given the words "shoes, castle, and bewilderment" by my childhood friend, Pauline. It was written on 28 May 2013.

I thought I'd share it now because red shoes have been on my mind since the sad news about David Bowie; Let's Dance was my first memory of him, late 1970s child that I am. That video is so evocative for me - I must have watched it scores of times when I was young. I didn't know then that the red shoes in the video followed on from their symbolism in the depressing Hans Christian Anderson fairytale and the stunning Powell and Pressburger film (see Lyn Gardner's piece here about the symbolism if you are interested in reading more). I didn't understand the story of the Let's Dance video exactly, but it felt very sad to me as a young child, and (not knowing what acting was) I couldn't understand why Bowie was ordering the man about like a strict teacher.

This story is happier. And, because I haven't felt like writing fiction lately but have wanted to do more photography, I've taken photos of red shoes to illustrate it. As Alice says before she goes down the rabbit hole, what is the use of a book without pictures or conversations?

Bored of Brogues

Was this really happening?

It was, but he still couldn't understand what had happened, what had led to this.

He had only gone to the shop to buy some new brogues for work. The sleepy-looking girl had shown him all of the brogues in the men's section, but nothing took his fancy. So, in her hungover daze, she led him to the women's brogues.

He hesitated. He wanted to say that he was fine, he'd just go to the other department shop across town, but when he opened his mouth to speak he just shut it again and followed her.

The women's brogues were definitely nicer. Instead of the rather serious black or chestnut brown of the men's, these seemed to be winking at him with their sexy cherry reds and cobalt blues, their candy pinks and mint greens, and their leopard prints. He picked up a cherry red brogue, but then he stopped. Behind it, in a shiny blood red that he could see his face in, was a pair of Mary Janes.

The toes were rounded, sort of conservatively but teasingly, and the back had a heel - not stiletto high (he'd looked in wonder at the women who wore these to work) but high enough for the wearer to notice and walk taller.

He didn't realise how long he had been looking at them, when the sleepy girl took one of them off the shelf and took the red brogue from his hand. She asked what size he was and he told her. As she went off to get them, he looked around the women's section in bewilderment. Did other men do this? Was it normal?

He sat down and just as he decided he'd been stupid and should leave before she got back, she came through the door with four boxes. She had brought the next size up too, in case they came up small on him. He looked worried and confused, but she gave him a tired smile as she got the shoes out of their boxes. Then she sat on a table and yawned.

He tried on the red brogues first. They were tight so he tried the bigger size. He walked around and looked in the mirror. They felt less stiff than his usual shoes, but he liked the secure movement they allowed. The only problem was they didn't look right on him. Besides, wouldn't it look strange if he wore cherry red shoes with his grey suits and blue shirts? Colour combinations was not something he'd thought about much before - a luxury that came from only wearing grey, blue and black.

He looked at the girl, who was now resting her eyes. He took the red Mary Janes out of the box and held them in his hands for a while. They looked like doll's shoes and even though they were his size, they felt so small. He liked how he could wrap his hand around the middle of each one.

He put one on. It was peculiar, slightly restrictive but not uncomfortable. He tried on the other and stood up. He felt a surge of blood to his head and held onto a shelf for support. When he'd regained his balance, he started to walk. He looked in the mirror, turning to look from all angles, posing in different stances, and walked again.

He wanted to run and jump and dance. The last time he had a rush like this was when he'd been for his job interview and was offered the job straight away. This was incredible. How a small thing could make him feel so different.

He looked at the girl. She was asleep.

He went to the mirror again. He imagined that he was posing at the end of a catwalk runway. He pretended he'd just been rescued from a locked room at the top of a castle and his rescuer had given him these shoes as he was carried out of the castle gates. He imagined wearing them in a dark forest, feeling no fear because the shoes would protect him.

He put his usual shoes back on and put the Mary Janes in their box. He woke the girl up and pointed to the box.

"I'd like to take those."

From a 1979 scene in Kramer vs. Kramer to Election 2015

You won't get me campaigning for a party here - my political beliefs have been a rollercoaster since my primary school teacher asked us to write letters to the prime minister to defend nurses' pay - but with an election on people's minds in the UK (and Alberta!), I thought I'd share something unusual that happened when I was young.

My parents had paid their way through university or college with housekeeping jobs in hotels, sorting post and delivering for the Royal Mail, working in shops, washing up in restaurants. Anything that would pay their lodgings. And unlike my student life in Swansea, these lodgings weren't relatively new single rooms in student accommodation, but the box room in a family's house, sharing the toilet in the back garden (I can't even imagine!) and staying in the library until closing time because it was heated, unlike their room in the freezing North East. Once they moved to London to start their careers, they still lived separately with other families, as they had before. At one point my dad was doing a three-hour commute each way, every day. One bus, one tube, one train, and another bus.

My point is, they've always had a strong work ethic.

My mum gave up her paid job once my sister was diagnosed with "brain injury" (the autism diagnosis didn't emerge for another fifteen years). She officially became a carer - although technically we all were and have remained carers to my sister - which meant she got a pittance of an "allowance" from the government. She spent six to eight hours a day carrying out a complex physical and mental therapy programme, with the help of kind, local strangers who had responded to our handwritten leaflets asking for voluntary helpers. I remember posting those door-by-door in our town.

I carried on going to school as normal, and adjusting to the change in circumstances at home. My dad had started working more weekends, which meant that on some weekends he would take me to his place of work (probably to give my mum a break from looking after two hyperactive kids) and I would have a fantastic time. Have you seen Kramer vs. Kramer? That scene where Dustin Hoffman takes Justin Henry to his new office, and his little son runs around, spinning around on the chair, looking out of the window and going "Wow!" That was me. I would make hot chocolate using the drinks machine, which was the most luxurious thing in my small world. And I would draw huge pictures using the draftsman's drawing board.

But I had no idea that the reason my dad was working so much was because we were struggling financially. That his friends at work who didn't need the extra money and would rather spend weekends with their families would give him their weekend shifts because they knew he needed them more. That the quarterly trips to the institute that organised the therapy for my sister cost a lot of money, and one national-average salary plus a tiny carer's allowance couldn't cover everything. Oh, and our local authority said that if we refused their "help" (which was to put my sister in a school for severely disabled children, a school that had a terrible reputation for its lack of care and education) then we would never get funding for any sort of treatment we wanted to try ourselves.

So I got a shock one day when the doorbell rang and our local Salvation Army officer was at the door, with boxes and bags full of groceries for us. There were huge packets of cereal, washing powder, toilet paper, and I can't remember what else. I couldn't understand it.

Years later, I asked my dad about it, expecting him to be embarrassed by the charity. He said we could never have survived that period if it wasn't for that extra support, and he's incredibly grateful.

So in all of the news, commentary and statistics that have been thrown about leading up to this election, the thing that has stood out for me is the number of people using food banks. The Trussell Trust says more than one million people in the UK were given three days' emergency food and support in the last financial year. Of that million, almost 400 000 were children.

I'm fortunate enough not to need a food bank now, but knowing that my family, who were hard-working and certainly not "poor", could find themselves in a situation where they needed donated food and washing powder to survive...well, I wouldn't want anyone to be in that situation.

And that's all I wanted to say about that.

So happy voting, whether you're voting for a particular party, a particular person, or making your frustration with the system known by spoiling your ballot paper! Here's hoping for an intelligent and compassionate government.

The past is a foreign country

It's World Book Day again, which means it's time for another book post featuring another book. The special day seems to be in the news even more this year because of children dressing up as their favourite characters. Our Flower Patch, which encourages children to get stuck in and learn about nature, has written a post about World Book Day and is running a competition to win a copy of Georgie Newbury's book, The Flower Farmer's Year.

Back here, I'm going to share a book and film-inspired trip I went on last year. I travelled to Norfolk for a few days, staying in a small market town, and got the bus into Norwich one day to go on a little The Go-Between tour. I adore The Go-Between. It's a beautiful book about childhood, love, and loss of innocence. It's about a boy called Leo who stays with his friend, Marcus, one stiflingly hot summer, and ends up being the secret messenger for Marcus's older sister, Marian, and her lover, Ted. And it has one of my favourite first lines:

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.

Leo turns thirteen while he is staying in their huge, grand house, but Marian takes him shopping in Norwich to buy him a summer suit as an early present. They lunch in the Maid's Head Hotel, and he walks around the cathedral by himself while Marian goes off for an hour, claiming she needs to run some errands.

There is a 1971 film version by Joseph Losey, which is beautifully shot by Gerry Fisher, with much of it filmed in Norfolk. Julie Christie plays Marian and Alan Bates plays Ted, both wonderfully, but nothing like I imagined from reading the book (as is so often the case with adaptations). There is a new BBC version which should be broadcast on TV this year.

So when I visited Norwich, I went around the beautiful cathedral, which was still decorated for Christmas as it was the first week in January.

The font used to belong to a chocolate manufacturer!

There is a herb garden too, which is no doubt even prettier in the summer.

Then it started to rain and I took shelter and lunch in the cozy but completely empty Maid's Head Hotel. I'm fairly sure there was a log fire, but maybe that's my romantic imagination.

When the rain stopped, I walked around the city and saw this beautiful sight along Tombland Alley - two red roses (for passionate Marian and Ted) and a white rose (for pure Leo). It was incredible. I sought out the alley because it's a location in the Losey film.

There were other lovely sights in Norwich that weren't related to the film. When I took this photo of floral chairs, a man who was very wrapped up because of the cold said, "I don't know how you're going to get the chairs to smile!" Afterwards I was stood in a cafe, deciding what drink to order, when the waitress said, "You look shifty." I turned around and realised she was talking to her friend, waiting behind me.

On the bus back to my hotel, I saw some things out of the window that lifted my spirits even more:

• A dog chasing a pony, chasing a pony, chasing the dog.
• Flowers proudly on display in the window of a house. They were gerberas - not my favourite flowers - but they still made me smile.
• Two paramedics sitting in a fish and chip shop. 

The next day I got the train home from Downham Market, but not before taking photos of two things: the stunning black and white clocktower, and the old signal box which has Grade II listed status.

Here's one of my favourite passages in The Go-Between, when Leo is wondering whether to carry on being the messenger and Ted is trying to persuade him.

"She counts on having them, same as I do. It’s something that we both look forward to. They’re not just ordinary letters. She’ll miss them, same as I shall. She’ll cry, perhaps. Do you want her to cry?" 

"No," I said. 

"It isn’t hard to make her cry," he said. "You might think she was stiff and proud, but she isn’t really. She used to cry, before you came along." 

"Why?" I asked. 

"Why? Well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you." 

"Did you make her cry?" I asked, almost too incredulous to be indignant. 

"I did. I didn’t do it on purpose, mind you. You think I’m just a rough chap, don’t you? Well, so I am. But she cried when she couldn’t see me." 

"How do you know?" I asked. 

"Because she cried when she did see me. Doesn't it follow?"

Declarations of love

Valentine's Day has come and gone. There were flowers for eros, storge, agape, and philia, as well as healthy narcissism. There were British tulips, narcissi, hellebores, blossom, and foliage.

Eros (Romantic love)

Red tulips for passionate declarations of love, white iris ("I have a message for you"), white hyacinths for beauty, pink ranunculus ("You are full of charms"), quince blossom for temptation, ivy for fidelity and marriage, and genista for humility.

Agape/Philia/Storge (Platonic love)

Pink tulips for graceful love, white ranunculus ("You are radiant with charms"), freesias for lasting friendship, genista for humility, pink hellebores ("Relieve my anxiety"), and mimosa for sensitivity and sensibility.

Narcissism (Healthy self love)

Paperwhite narcissi for regard, self love and new beginnings, white ranunculus ("You are radiant with charms"), mimosa  for sensitivity and sensibility, and eucalyptus for protection.

I was pleased to have flowers for the Portmeirion Botanic Blue jug I got at Christmas...even if the flowers had to be whipped out of the jug soon after the photo!