There was a time, once, when we thought to form a group - a pop group. The idea stemmed from a friend, the improbably named Lyn Long, whose tenuous claim to fame at that point was that her father had been a Member of Parliament serving under Clement Attlee in the post-war Labour government. Our aim, and upon this our popularity would depend, was a revival of old songs, a reinvention of nostalgia. And, as such, our signature tune was to be 'We'll Gather Lilacs in the Spring Again'. Needless to say, it all came to nothing.
We were reminded of this only yesterday when, to have flowers in the apartment over Easter, we ventured to the outside market. Predominantly dealing in fruit and vegetables, with some cheese and meat, and in glorious disregard of all European Union dictates, the market operates daily throughout the year. However, it is at its best towards the weekend when, in addition to the regular stall holders, the old grandmothers come in from the country, their baskets groaning with homemade produce.
|a country woman at her stall in the outside market|
There are to be claimed jams and chutneys, pies and pickles and, of course, garden flowers. And so we found our Lilac. Still dripping with the morning dew [although here, perhaps, a little poetic licence has been allowed to creep in] we gathered armfuls intent on filling the rooms with its potent scent.
|a vase of Lilac on the drinks' table in the Morning Room|
And so we have. But today, looking to top up the water in the vases we note, somewhat sadly, the heads are turned downwards, the green leaves wilted, the life force spent.