A close call

Tuesday March 1, 2005

PDA sketch, printed onto typing paper, touched up with pen and wash, and re-scanned
The daffodils

If there were daffodils last year, when we were in Wales, I seem not to have recorded them. So, to redress the omission on this St David’s Day, I determined to buy a bunch when I went to Spilsby for bread and milk. Fat chance. No daffodils. And no digestive biscuits, either, just to round off my disappointment.

There was a snow event just as I walked out of the Co-Op doors. Not a significant one. More of a snizzle than a genuine snow. Oh, but it was miserable. A chill, sneaky wind, wet snow blowing before it, and grey, horrid skies. Earlier in the winter, when these things came along for the first time, it was fresh and wonderful and I stood, hatless, head held up to catch the thrill of snowflakes on my face. That’s as it should be, all right and proper. It takes a stouter and more weather-resistant fella than me, though, still to enjoy it after weeks and weeks of the stuff.

On the way home I drove slowly and carefully, keeping my eye open for daffodils, thinking I might at least be able to get a photograph to celebrate. Nary a bloom to be seen. A majorly impressive display of late snowdrops on a bank that’s just caught the sun as it slips toward the solstice, and a miserable line of miniature narcissi in someone’s front garden, but no daffodils. Lots of them getting ready to bloom, but none actually coming out to celebrate. Perhaps they are more cautious here in this bit of Lincolnshire, holding back until the chance of a significant snow event is well past.

No matter. I have daffodils a’plenty in my archives, and in my memory, too. And when this year’s crop does come into flower they will be all the more welcome for the anticipation.

The first mass daffodil event I see, I shall do my small boy impression and stand, hands clasped behind my back and intone the daffodil poem. Perhaps, in preparation, I should pull my Wordsworth down from the shelf, just to refresh my memory. And my inner eye.

So, home again, I settled down in front of the fire to snooze the rest of the morning away. Off in the dining room Graham was sanding down the walls in hope that he’ll be able to paint them straight rather than hang lining paper first. I have my doubts.

I got through the first day of the month, then, not too grumpy, or ungrateful, or ill-tempered. It was a close call, though.



One response to “A close call

  1. Pingback: Quite interesting, really « journal of a writing man

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