forsythia, grilling smells, worst meals

A single stem of forsythia appears in the middle of a dense lelandii (Cupressocyparis lellandii to gove it its proper name) hedge half way up Mount Sion. Lelandii is a notorious tree left untended in the suburbs. It grows tall and straggly and excludes people's light, but it is innoffensive in a hedge if kept pruned. Forythia, another feature of suburban gardens is a welcome sign of spring, showing its flowers before its leaves. It, too, can get untidy when it has flowered. But this combination is winning, a yellow flame in a green night.

Even a vegetarian might find that the smell of grilling meat, which comes to us this morning from a restaurant in the High Street, sharpens the appetite.

In the Pantiles, we bump into friends outside Ragged Trouser and, over a snack and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, talk about the worst meals we have ever had. Heidi remembers a peanut soup on the menu at a dinner party in America. Adrienne remembers choking over a dish of sea urchin eggs ( a delicacy I always thought). I enjoy the sunshine, but can't think of a "worst" meal, other than the 50-course banquet, which I once had to sit through in Hong Kong, and which was not so much bad as an embarras de richesse. A feature of it was braised turtle, which reminded me of a tortoise-shell dressing table set of my mother's. Only you had to suck the meat off. I donated it to my neighbour, a Hong Kong gastronome.