Autumn blues (and pinks)

It's officially autumn. I was wearing two layers at the weekend, it was dark when I got home from long days at work at the start of the month, and I'm pretty sure I saw frost on the grass earlier this week.

But as it warmed up this week, I could enjoy the late roses and pink sedum. And butterflies have come out dancing again.

I know some people love autumn - the friends I visited last weekend were happy it's autumn now, and last week when I went to a Write and Shine workshop, a lot of the writers seemed excited or happy or at least gently optimistic about the autumn equinox. When we went round the table, each saying one word that came to our mind when we thought of autumn, I said "sad".

I feel blue when the days get shorter and colder and darker. I feel sad when I see the summer flowers shutting up shop for the year. And my heart sinks a little when I see the Halloween and Christmas things in the shops before the summer is over.

The photos above were taken at Selfridges on a beautiful warm day in August. Christmas comes very early to Oxford Street each year, but it's still strange to see. The David Bowie bauble is pretty cool if you have money to burn. I am sentimental though, so my favourite Christmas decorations are the oldest ones with the fondest memories attached to them.

Today is the big Macmillan coffee morning. This time last year I went to Helen's parents' house where Helen and her mother ran a coffee morning as they had done on previous years. But last year's was poignant - the beautiful young woman in the green Macmillan t-shirt serving us tea, coffee and cake had been diagnosed with terminal cancer six months earlier, and would leave us seven months later. The last few weeks, several of her photos and videos have suddenly brought me to tears. My grief is cyclical and I feel like I'm back at disbelief and deep sadness.

The last few Septembers, Helen's mother and I met at the local allotments and bought dahlias. I love the bundle of dahlias wrapped in newspaper - it reminds me of a passage from the late Jane Packer's book, where she remembers her grandfather bringing allotment dahlias for her grandmother. Last September, I gave flowers for Helen - Darcey David Austin roses (named after her fellow dancer Darcey Bussell) and sunflowers with British lisianthus - and a smaller posy for her mother. I love the deep pink-reds and yellows of the season. The colours almost banish the blues of the shorter days. This year her mother and I meant to go to the allotment open day, but life got in the way.

Tomorrow I'm going on the first Twilight Walk organised by both St Christopher's Hospice and Greenwich and Bexley Hospice, walking around Greenwich and Blackheath. St Christopher's looked after Vicky as an outpatient for a few years and as an inpatient for the last five weeks of her life. Vicky's fundraising page is here. St Christopher's also looked after Helen as an outpatient and at home. Helen's fundraising page is here. And Greenwich and Bexley Hospice is where I've received bereavement counselling for the past year (as I'd worked as a bereavement counsellor at St Christopher's for three years, I couldn't have counselling there because too many people knew me). My sessions are about to come to end, and I'm utterly grateful to the hospice, the bereavement service, and my incredible counsellor for the support they've given me during this wretched year. You can donate to Greenwich and Bexley here.

I hope you have lovely weekends and the sun shines for you.

Comfort in decay

I'm sorry. But shouldn't you send bouquets to people who've got something to celebrate like, you know, an anniversary or a new job or something? Not losing a bloody baby. I mean, what do flowers do anyway? Nothing. You know, they just sit there, reminding you of why they were sent to you, and then they die. Well I've got that to look forward to, haven't I?

Jenny, Cold Feet

This episode of Cold Feet where Jenny and Pete receive a barrage of bouquets after their miscarriage is one I use to illustrate why sympathy flowers are problematic. Cut flowers aren't plants, and they have a limited life.

I've heard stories of people who've taken immense comfort in the sympathy flowers that were given to them, and even some who took the funeral flowers back home. But I've also witnessed people's anger as they recounted people giving flowers when the person who died couldn't stand them, or distress as their home started to feel like a hospital room with bouquets and baskets everywhere, or the stress of running out of vases. (I recommend only sending sympathy flowers in a container that can be displayed.)

After Helen's funeral, most of the leftover flowers went to her family and friends. I had a few White O'Hara roses, feverfew, rosemary and Solomon's Seal. I put them in the blue Portmerion vase that Helen had seen displaying narcissi and delphiniums when she told me she was engaged.

I took great comfort in the scent of the roses. I would lean towards them and inhale deeply, as if they were an oxygen mask. A few years ago, my therapist friend Lisa Hardi recommended rose oil to me as it's nurturing and a heart-healer, and it is one of my favourite smells. It probably reminds me of carefree summers and the old roses in my childhood garden. The scent is so warming, sweet, and comforting.

However, there was a gradual change over the next week. The sweet scent that filled the room became more sour. The roses were decaying, and the hot weather was intensifying this. Cut flowers expend a lot of energy trying to stay alive, and scented flowers require more energy and consequently have a shorter life. But I took comfort from them, these physical reminders of that heartbreaking day. I should have thrown the roses out and just kept the daisy-like feverfew, but I didn't want to. I wanted to keep the roses as long as possible, and I don't know how to explain why, but I felt secure when I smelled the decaying flowers each morning. The only comparison I can make is with The Bell Jar, when Esther wears the same borrowed blouse and skirt for weeks and describes the unwashed smell as "sour but friendly". (I'm not in Esther-ville though, don't worry.)

One day I'd been weeding in the afternoon heat, and as I sat indoors resting afterwards, I wondered what the terrible smell was. I thought it was my clothes after kneeling on the ground and handling earth and weeds. Then I realised it was the flowers, and it was definitely time to say goodbye to them.

I took photos of them before I threw them with the garden waste. I tried to get a dusky effect in the evening light with a few photos, but I didn't really know what I was doing.

Last year, I took photos of gently wilting White O'Hara roses with ballet pinks and shared them with Helen - I didn't associate her with pink, but always associated her with ballet. And ballet with her.

Pink lemonade and chocolate mint

I've been going to lots of classes over the last few months - flamenco, ballet, swing (lots of fun, would like to do more classes in future), singing, tap dancing (far too technical for me and both are much harder than they appear to be), and different types of acting (which is loads of fun).

After my improvisation class last week, we went to a cafe for food and a chat. When we left, I asked the staff if I could take our empty bottles - pink lemonade and citron (isn't that just 'lemon' in French?!) and the staff at Bills' kindly wrapped the bottles up for me.

There wasn't a lot in full flower in the garden, but I filled the lemonade bottles and some mini milk bottles with rose buds, scabious, flowering orange thyme and chocolate mint. I made a lovely cup of chocolate mint tea with the leaves below the water line, and even that looked pretty in my William Morris 'Daisy' mug that my friend Sarah gave me as a 'cheer up' present this year.

I took these photos on the same day that I took the overlit photos of the first roses, and I think these came out much better!

I like the promise of summer that these image evoke - parks, wooden benches, lemonade and tea, and sweet-smelling roses and herbs.

Eye-popping wedding flowers

Today I went to the Luxury Wedding Show at the Millennium Hotel in Grosvenor Square. The first stand to catch my eye was Urbanstems, a florist based in Potters Bar in Hertfordshire. There were table centres atop of very tall vases and a long garland with bright pink and purple flowers, including the most beautiful hydrangeas. There was a hot pink bridal bouquet, made up of roses, calla lilies, chrysanthemums, and some bling. Pearls and diamantes are often used in bridal flowers, but they don’t always work for me; these definitely did. Some of Urbanstems’ bridal bouquets featured in the catwalk show, and they looked amazing. At a time when the main fashion for wedding flowers seems to be vintage or classic (i.e. white), these bright bouquets looked modern and, dare I say it, sexy.

The women there were kind enough to chat to me about floristry during a quiet period. It was lovely to speak to people who are so enthusiastic and knowledgeable about their work, and who were happy to offer me some last minute advice for the wedding I’m doing next weekend. There’s a huge gallery of wedding flower photos on their website, which is well worth a look.

I was mainly interested in wedding flowers, but I was curious enough to stay for the catwalk show. I’m glad I did! It began with Kerry Birkett, a First Artist from the English National Ballet, dancing to Swan Lake in what I think was the ballerina-style wedding dress that was especially designed for her. She’s getting married next year, and I’m sure the wedding guests will be in for a treat as she and her husband (English National Ballet Soloist, Zhanat Atymtayev) do their first dance.