fallen, specs, meadows

When a cut rose sheds its petals overnight, the scent by the vase this morning is overpowering. The single petal has a brief life of its own.

Reading the letters at the optician's is like taking an exam. Notes of approval from the lady optician are like passing with honours. If anything, it's better than last time, she says. My long sight is as good as ever. My regular reading glasses don't need changing . But I still need some compact glasses for browsing in bookshops, reading menus, and the like. They fit me out with a pair of "quick readers" - I think that's what they are called - without a prescription lens and therefore not expensive. But their great merit is that they slot into a hard case not much bigger than a fountain pen, and are easy as pie to carry around.

There is a modern terrace in the "village" set amid the Victorian houses. In front of it are a some little stretches of "lawn" intersected by paths to the front gates. These are usually kept neatly cut by a contractor. But the contractor seems to have defaulted. and the result to my, though by by no means everyone's, delight, is a series of mini-meadows. Long grass with swaying, feathery heads, buttercups, thistles and docks have taken over from the dandelions. In the rain this afternoon, there is a smell of the country and you can sense a stirring of wild life.