Mrs Smith makes awful tea; weak. And the milk she put in it this morning was right on edge.
I saw her watching me, over the rim of her cup, daring me to drink it. I watched her back, over the rim of mine - and did.
* * * * *
There is one, joyous Bach-note that I listen to over and over again.
I know precisely where to place the needle on the gramaphone. I lower the arm, dash to the other side of the room - and wait. It hits me. (The note.) I go back, raise the arm, lower it, dart away - listen.
There's one blade of grass outside my window that I like above all others. I keep returning to it - admiring the way it reaches above its colleagues, its not-yet-completely-open leaf pointing straight into the morning sunshine; a maze spear in miniature.
I took Mrs Smith to see it.
Side by side, we stood on the pavement, admiring it. (At least, I was.)
Mrs Coverdale came and stood next to us. I explained about the blade of grass but she was inclined to chat. I was glad when she looked at her watch and went.
Still, Mrs Smith and I stood, side by side, looking.
Tentatively, I invited her to look at some of the others.
"They're flowering," I said. "And I didn't plant any of them, they just came - and they flowered - and there are so many different kinds of flowers - and you wouldn't have seen them if I'd pulled them out."
(The Council Mows her grass. It tried to mow mine but I put up a notice saying 'Don't!'.)
(It was massive; that notice. They couldn't have missed it - but I still had to phone the town office seven times before they agreed to leave it alone.)
"I like that," she said, pointing at a small plant with delicate white flowers.
I've promised to give her seed.
* * * * *
FAULTS CONFESSED: ONE
Putting the cane in the centre of the pot instead of a plant.
I mean, I do put the plant in the pot too - but not in the centre - because that's where I've put the cane.
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