close-up, holly, car

The wisteria beside the front door is beginning to fade. It is shedding its petals which Mrs Plutarch sweeps up like fag ends. A close-up makes you forget about the long, drooping panicles and remember the individual blooms.

Holly is not a tree which  you associate with spring, but such prominent berries are inevitably preceded by flowers.  And it is the clusters of white flowers on a holly tree that catch my attention in The Grove this afternoon. Holly flowers.

Some cars, particularly old, battered cars, rather like old dogs and old people develop distinctive personalities often associated with their decrepitude. Sometimes a car's registration plate helps the process. I remember a car called HEV very much on its last legs, rusty and mildewed and grey. I remember it rather better than the family that owned it; only that they habitually referred to it as Hev. Sometimes though, a new car arrives bursting with personality. The red Fiat 500 recently acquired by a neighbour is an example. It is red inside and out and feisty by nature and inclination. Everyone who sees it  and rides in it falls in love with it. It has the delightful name of WOB.