daisy, autobiography, stories

Why do I get so much pleasure this morning from discovering (or rather rediscovering, for I am sure that I have met it before) that the French word for daisy is pâquerette? I cannot tell, but in a curious way the little white flower is born again in my mind.

Following the fashion for six-word autobiographies, here is mine: I looked and looked and look.

The two bookshops in Chapel Place, The Oxfam bookshop and Hall's, are full of people browsing and chatting to escape from the rain, hail and snow, all of which are taking turns outside this afternoon. In Hall's, Sabrina, the owner and David, a neighbour are reminiscing about Calverley Grounds, the larger of the two neighbouring parks. In particular, they recall a couple of years ago, a one eyed fox called The Major. The park keeper had tamed him, and he used to sit around on his haunches like a dog. He would sometimes go into people's houses, and once nicked a Kit Kat bar from someone's table.