London is awash with daffodils, hundreds of varieties and shades of yellow going from frothy lemon to deep orange. There are traditional King Alfred trumpets, clusters of petals, large cupped, curly cupped, jonquillas and poeticus with white petals, all over the city. Miniature daffodils dot the verges and graveyards; tall and short blooms greet us as we walk down the road and at home one has even wound itself around my trellis.
They’ve been on sale since the end of January anywhere from £1 a bunch or 3 bunches for a £1. They sell as buds and soon bloom in the warmth of the flat and last for as long as a week or so.
Early ones in the churchyard are starting to wither but there are still loads of buds in the hedgerows, woodland pathways, flowerbeds and rolling green spaces, so hosts more golden daffodils are on their way.
Our daughter in Leigh on Sea said she noticed men walking home clutching one daffodil. I suggested that perhaps, like the orange trees lining the streets of Southern Spain, the public know to only take one, one orange per person, one daffodil per man.
A gentleman’s agreement.
Today, as hubs and I were walking through the glamourous ancient woodland in our nearby park, we came across hundreds of daffodils under a sprawling tree. I had observed a young family, carefully positioned so as not to damage the delicate flowers, photographing mother and child in the yellow blooms yesterday, rather like the Easter photos taken in and among the wildflowers at home.
In Texas we have signs,
“Wildflowers are to be admired not picked.” No signs here, not needed, it’s ‘understood.’
At least by Englishmen
Today there was a family of a different sort playing among the golden blooms, not only playing but boisterously crushing and trampling the golden blooms, not only crushing and trampling but picking the golden blooms, large bunches of them, as if they had a barrow in the market.
A woman on a bicycle had stopped with her husband and was saying loudly,
“You cannot pick the daffodils…stop picking the daffodils…you can’t do that!”
To which the spokesman for the industrious pickers was responding,
“Where’s the sign saying we can’t pick the daffodils? I don’t see a sign…” Gesticulating furiously he swept his arm around the signless fields,
“See? No signs, where are the signs telling not to pick?”
He was French and did not ‘understand.’ He and his family of dozens continued harvesting the City of Lewisham’s golden blooms.
The cyclist persevered in her ranting as she saw the yellow heads now being brandished by the children as King Alfred swords.
“You just can’t pick them, everyone knows that…will you stop them, please, stop them!” She was gesticulating pretty well herself by now.
“Everyone knows?” our arrogant Frenchman was enjoying himself, “Well I don’t know,” and he went back to the harvest.
The lady cyclist caught hubs and me looking on, she pointed at us,
“You know we’re not allowed to pick the daffodils don’t you?”
“Yes,” we agreed and glared at the pickers. She smiled at us and said,
“Thank you very much…see, we all know not to pick the flowers…it’s just not….well…done!” Had she been standing she would have stamped her pretty little foot I feel certain.
The French party looked at us, ignored her words and our nods and continued anyway and we continued on our way.
As I trod up the hill to the manor house I looked down at my cardigan, my buttons were askew, not only off by one but off by a few.
I looked at hubs,
“Why didn’t you tell me I was mis-buttoned?” I jabbed.
I must have looked ridiculous and as I undid my buttons to start again, from the bottom up this time, I said,
“It’s a wonder the Frenchman didn’t turn around to me and say, ‘you can’t even do your buttons up properly, what do you know about what’s done and not done?'”
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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