Well, this is weird. My first post of 2015 and I am chatting about Spring. How odd.
Firstly, Happy New Year! I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas (Our kids set off the actual day at 4:14 am. Cruel cruel kids.) and I hope that you all kicked back and took it easy. It was also my birthday and I am now half way to 50. I’m now OLD. I woke up with another wrinkle.
But today, I feel good. Jay gave me a potted daffodil for my birthday. Daffodils are my favourite flowers. I love everything about them, from their colour to their smell. I love the cute tiny ones, and the amazing ones that sprout 2 heads off one stem. But I also love the memory I have of them.
When I was young, I lived with my nan and granddad. We lived in a classic 3 bed council house, in a tiny village on the Bedfordshire/Buckinghamshire boarder. Anyone who has experience of the old pre-war council homes, may know how huge their gardens are. Ours was massive. I never had to run away from home as a kid, I would just take myself off for the several minutes walk to the bottom of the garden, pop over the fence, jump the brook and sit in the field behind.
Our garden was FULL of daffodils. Every year. Thousands of them. Literally. You couldn’t see any other flowers in the beds for daffodils. They would pop up all over, even in the grass. I remember the smell of them being so strong and their yellows, oranges and greens being so vivid. They even spilt from the garden into the house. We would pick and bunch them and proudly shove them on every window sill and flyleaf table going. Hay-fever sufferers worst nightmare.
It makes me quite sad to think that I don’t have that any more. But even just one little bunch, flowering early in my living room window fills me full of love and happiness. I love this time of year. Even if it still is only the first week of January!
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