euphorbia, parrots, fragment

The pale yellow, almost green flowers of euphorbia (the common name of the wild variety is spurge) are appealingly understated. The little flowers are surrounded by petal-like bracts of the same colour. The overwheming impression is of freshness, a new start. I stop to admire them, where they grow in the triangular shrubbery (known locally as the village green) in Berkeley Road. They blossom modestly amid daffodils, crocuses, lesser celandine, and periwinkle, but still give a good account of themselves.

Tulips, with crinkley, close-knit petals and thick stems, called parrot tulips, are in the flower shops and on the stall by the station just now. The stall-holder calls them simply "parrots". As the flowers open, there is something a little naughty about them, like frilly knickers.

Two men pass me in the High Street, one with a scarf tied carelessly about his neck is telling the other: "So she said 'I'm married now with two kids' ...". They walk on in the opposite direction. There, I thought, goes a short story.