Lily of the Valley

On with my airport socks, muddy trainers, shorts, purple jogging vest, that was so tight I was up to my neck in chest, a shrunken grey cardigan and a thin, yellow fancy anorak, with a front pocket for my smart phone.
Put the headphones round the back of my head, on with The Puppies and off I went.
The sun shone into my eyes. So brightly I couldn’t see the wood for the trees; by the ‘For Sale Woodland’ sign, the sun was to my right. Brilliantly illuminating the trimmed hedges and rivulets of water. A lot of rain and a lot of over flowing streams.
By the time I got to frogspawn bend the sun was overhead. Not that I had been travelling for hours I had just changed orientation.
Up date on the bonfire, the carpet, Christmas tree, and armchair have now been joined by a fetching mossy, green fire surround.
Up the hill, looking down at the wet road, so that I could defy gravity, which my purple jogging vest served to do, fooling myself I was walking on the flat and not a bloody great incline.
By the stables the sun was on my left. My shadow accompanied me. Bobbing along with me through the hedgerows.
I had been bothered by two Ocado delivery cans – both of which I didn’t hear – three Chelsea Tractors and a little old man in a red car who nearly drove me into the ditch.
I wondered whether everybody shopped on a Thursday now, have you seen that Fridays are being eliminated. It will now be a four day working week so that people can sleep and stay at home?
I had sprayed on some lovely ‘Lily of the Valley’ perfume on me wrists. I, like Marilyn, cannot leave the house without my Number ‘5’. Although my Chanel is in the cupboard in my room. When I need to lift the vibe in the attic I have a quick spray.
Now ‘Lily of the Valley’ is the first scent bought for me by my first boyfriend.
He was dashing and blonde, clever and romantic. His 17 year old face came into mind every time my arms came near my nose. I could smell my youth.
The school library, the back row of the cinema, the trips to Shenley Mental Home where he delivered his uncles vegetables. His uncle wasn’t an inmate but the local greengrocer.
Each waft took me back to 1965. To his marriage proposal at ‘The Cock Inn’ by St. Albans Abbey and The ‘Beachboys’ behind his mothers sofa.
His mothers ham salads on a Sunday, which were a meagre affair, well come on I had come from a Jewish Peasant family where we ate our weight in food at least six times a day.
His unusual gifts from his uncles greengrocers shop.
Huge Californian Raisins, tangerines, cumquats. Exotic gifts that a child of the 50’s had never seen. They all rotted on the top of my chest of drawers next to my record player. I couldn’t bring myself to eat them.
By the time I got home I was hot, sweaty and too nostalgic for my own good.
That was yesterday. Today its raining, and I have just taken delivery of my Krill oil capsules to keep me naturally stable and smelling of fish.
I’m off to the attic now for a quick meditate, some writing then I’m collecting the dawter from the station. We are meeting a man in Gatwick who has our future in his hands.
I’m worried about the parking cos it’ll cost a fortune, but hey, you have to accumulate to speculate, or is it the other way round. You choose?