life in pink Tweet

At Marylebone Farmers' Market today, I couldn't resist these huge pink, fragrant roses, though a bunch was eight pounds, and we normally bring home a lot more bloom for around ten. Only downloading the photos this evening did I notice that my adored stripy jumper could've programmed me slightly to pick the pink. I am so fond of this garment, a pricey gift from myself (to myself) on my birthday in Bucharest years back, that a bit of my heart dies each time the jumper gets washed and thins out a tad more. And however desperately I look, I cannot find a replacement. So, as I often do when such thoughts cloud my mind, I focused on making someone else happy, as that was possible: one of my roses went home with an old lady in a terrible, terrible state. She was dressed in old furs, like one imagines a once-beautiful, once-rich, once-loved Russian grandma. Her fingernails were enormous, twisted like claws, and I noticed them for how she grabbed walls and pub tables for support, slowly shuffling alongside Marylebone High Street. Needless to say, I felt terribly proud to have dropped a rose in her shopper, picturing how she'd get home and put it in a simple glass, and tried not to spend too much time thinking about where I could very quickly, very cheaply buy a walking cane of sorts.