This morning we brew the last of the special teas which Caroline gave me for Christmas. I had saved this one because I knew it was special. It consists of light, brownish balls of leaf over which you pour boiling water. What follows is spectacular. The wrapping of leaves opens and spreads out like live seaweed swaying in the water. From the centre, next, emerges in a trickle a broadening white stain. This turns out to be composed of jasmine flowers which, following the example of the leaves, proceed to open and sway to and fro. The liquor itself is of a golden colour and lightly perfumed, and tastes all the better for the ballet performed in its making.
In the Grove there is a great kerfuffle in a bush. Two male blackbirds fly out attacking one another in the air, where Spring and territorial urges drive on their violence.
In the flower shop the telephone rings. One of the assistants darts around looking on the counter and elsewhere for the source of the ringing. Where is the phone? Everyone is laughing by now. It is in her hand and has been all the time.