Daffadowndilly
Has come into town,
In a yellow petticoat
And a green gown.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Apparently it's bad luck to have dead flowers inside.
I went away, and had a wonderful trip. Leaving yellow roses and beautiful pink and lemon tulips (the kind that sort of fade between to make orange tulips) in a preserve jar (which looks like an eccentric's vase - my favorite type of interior design) in our hallway. I left two yellow roses by themselves in the bathroom. Diligently emptying a little powder sachet (supplied by the florist) into the jar - to preserve them in their eccentric preserve vase jar.
The shone hine - the sun shined the whole time I was away. Not a cloud in the sky. Beautiful rolling green. Green. Green grass, green stuff. I went home. But it isn't home. My Mum said its not home if she's not there. I saw my friends, who, like my home haven't changed.
All my neighbors houses were knocked down - demolished - and no one told me. A car parts store now stands next to my puny little cottage-like family home. When I walk out my front door I am met by traffic lights, added for the new business next door. Everyone said they thought i knew.
Today I came back to the city. From my trip. I could hardly breath - you can taste the car fumes, and the negativity. And when I came home, the flowers were dead, they were on their way out when I left - but I relied on the little powder sachet to hold them out - a little longer - until I got back.
I hope nothing bad will happen. I haven't managed to tip them out yet. I will in the morning. But, I don't know what I will replace them with, because the person that bought them for me, he isn't here.
Perhaps I will go and sneakily stroll around the block, and snag onto other people's branches and tug there flowers off, slip them into my handbag. It could be stress relieving, it could change the city, front yards trying to impress someone - their floral displays elaborate, as cars whizz pass - no one actually notices.
Stealing other peoples flowers is something I imagine 60-something year old ladies doing. Perhaps older. Perhaps, on their walks "out" of rest homes they steal flowers, take them home and pretend their relatives (who never visit) bought them over. Poor Beryl and her mix-matched vase of bruised petaled (stolen) flowers. She tells Ingrid across the hall that her daughter bought them. But her daughter doesn't come. Despite having an abundant garden Beryl's daughter never brings her flowers. And it's a shame. But Beryl has a strange attachment, throwing the flowers out. Not like me.
Tomorrow I am going to throw them out. They are bad luck when they're dead and left inside.
I went away, and had a wonderful trip. Leaving yellow roses and beautiful pink and lemon tulips (the kind that sort of fade between to make orange tulips) in a preserve jar (which looks like an eccentric's vase - my favorite type of interior design) in our hallway. I left two yellow roses by themselves in the bathroom. Diligently emptying a little powder sachet (supplied by the florist) into the jar - to preserve them in their eccentric preserve vase jar.
The shone hine - the sun shined the whole time I was away. Not a cloud in the sky. Beautiful rolling green. Green. Green grass, green stuff. I went home. But it isn't home. My Mum said its not home if she's not there. I saw my friends, who, like my home haven't changed.
All my neighbors houses were knocked down - demolished - and no one told me. A car parts store now stands next to my puny little cottage-like family home. When I walk out my front door I am met by traffic lights, added for the new business next door. Everyone said they thought i knew.
Today I came back to the city. From my trip. I could hardly breath - you can taste the car fumes, and the negativity. And when I came home, the flowers were dead, they were on their way out when I left - but I relied on the little powder sachet to hold them out - a little longer - until I got back.
I hope nothing bad will happen. I haven't managed to tip them out yet. I will in the morning. But, I don't know what I will replace them with, because the person that bought them for me, he isn't here.
Perhaps I will go and sneakily stroll around the block, and snag onto other people's branches and tug there flowers off, slip them into my handbag. It could be stress relieving, it could change the city, front yards trying to impress someone - their floral displays elaborate, as cars whizz pass - no one actually notices.
Stealing other peoples flowers is something I imagine 60-something year old ladies doing. Perhaps older. Perhaps, on their walks "out" of rest homes they steal flowers, take them home and pretend their relatives (who never visit) bought them over. Poor Beryl and her mix-matched vase of bruised petaled (stolen) flowers. She tells Ingrid across the hall that her daughter bought them. But her daughter doesn't come. Despite having an abundant garden Beryl's daughter never brings her flowers. And it's a shame. But Beryl has a strange attachment, throwing the flowers out. Not like me.
Tomorrow I am going to throw them out. They are bad luck when they're dead and left inside.
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