Sometimes you just need daffodils

It is January. Spring feels distant. I need more daylight. I need sunshine. I need warmth. I am not a winter person, and I want to mispunctuate the first part of this sentence with inappropriately multiple full stops.

Waitrose to the rescue. British Crown Daffodils. Two bunches. A couple of hours in a vase and these green sticks will be opening up their yellow frills.

And I wait. And I wait. They do not play ball. The next day I move them upstairs from the basement kitchen towards extra light to see if that helps them along. This is slow work. Usually, daffodils open within several hours of bringing them home. A few are playing ball, but this is not daffodil cheer.

A friend who works in the bulbfield industry in Holland suggests that they are forced, and that they will open. Too bloody right or Mr Waitrose will be getting a return visit. They are not doing what was expected of them.

And then, today, Baglady has daffodils. Yellow. Frilly. Playful. Vibrant. Eccentric. Dancing. Bright. Spring.

And it feels as if the days may lengthen, that the winter may lift, and that the sun may provide some warmth.

Family treasures from the attic

Mum found this sketch that my dad did of me, probably about 53 years ago. Boy, I had a fat face.

Mum didn’t get off too lightly either: there’s one of her too. That hair did not look like a good cut, and her nose looks a bit wonky.

My dad was so talented, and took my art criticism well too!