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I DON’T LIKE ROSES
I’m in bed.
The window is open.
Twenty feet from my nose - the topmost branches of a Rambling Rector.
I hold my breathe; not believing every next intake will bring more scent.
But it doesn’t run out. It’s crossing the street. It’s stopping passers by - it’s June - and there’s endless blackbird.
* * * * *
Cluster upon cluster of small, white, yellow-centred, single flowers - densely packed on kraken-length stems.
Half inch thorns.
It’s gone over the arch; over the bushes; over the gate; over the fence into Lucy’s garden.
It’s ripping its way through the shed roof.
But it can’t get me!
* * * * *
I don’t like Roses.
This can’t be a rose.
* * * * *
FRIDAY:-
I was about to re-draw the apple-tree; pastels, paper, paint and brushes spread ready across the table.
Ming and the children set out for a walk.
Peace coming.
Concentration looming.
I’m restless for it.
I stand at the door calling out, ‘Goodbye’. ‘Enjoy your ice-creams!’
* * * * *
Suddenly, I’ve vanished (it must have been funny from the outside) - keeled over sideways, out of sight, onto the stairs.
There’s a slightly uncomprehending pause.
Then they all come back - where have I gone?
They try to drag me out of the way of the door.
My feet and ankles get stuck.
Ming pulls me further up the stairs.
Didcott tries to hold my hand.
It’s a tug of war.
Worthing gets cross.
I can hear.
I can feel.
But I can’t speak. Can’t move.
My eyelids have flopped - along with the rest of me - so I can’t see.
I like to be boss - in charge. So I’m shouting ‘Do this, do that!’ - but they can’t hear - my voice stays in my head; my lips won’t move.
I’m wild with frustration.
* * * * *
Three days in bed; sleeping, dozing, reading, wandering through the internet (with comments).
The family runs round at my bidding, brings me cups of tea, shops, argues, reads to me, brings me treats; meals.
Not bad eh!?
Ming, Didcott, Worthing, The Rambling Rector - luxury!
* * * * *
(Actually, just at this minute, they’re all shouting at each other. I’m not there to tell them to stop!)
(Well, the Rambling Rector’s not shouting. It’s bobbing around happily - outside the window.)
(I’ll concentrate on that.)
_ _ _ _