There is a queue spilling from a greengrocer’s door into a gentrified street. The customers are affluent and wrapped up in tweed and heavy knits. In a pub round the corner the rugby has just finished. The landlord kills the screen and the afternoon’s drinkers begin to disperse. Everyone goes home to cook or order something in. Drink.
Oh this spring has been cold. My neighbour says that if they don’t feel the warmth of the sun, narcissi grow up blind. They rise, look strong, but never flower. I think of this sometimes when I watch the wealthy at play.