window 2, parrots, no tablecloths

Another mysterious window belongs, it seems to a room, not in everyday use. There are bricks stacked at the sides instead of hanging curtains; and dead centre something like an oil dispenser. The attraction of windows are the mysteries within, of which they offer only a  tantalising glimpse.

Flower stall holders, at this time of year, often have "parrots" for sale, by which term they mean parrot tulips. More respectable florists will use the term in full. Parrot tulips according to Anna Pavord's comprehensive account of the flower and its history are cultivars, which arose as sports or mutations, "from perfectly well behaved tulips such as Clara Butt. The idea of a well behaved tulip is appealing and Parrots have a tendency to behaviour which you might call flighty. We have two example in view at the moment. One is a display of bulbs (planted in the Autumn) in a clay dish on the garden table and viewed through the sitting room window. They, in common with all Parrots, have tattered, crested petals. They are green and pink  The buds not yet unfolded,  in justification of the name, resemble the beaks of parrots.  The second lot of Parrots   seem to burst out of  a vase in front of  the window. They are wide open, red with yellow throats and black stamens. If flowers could make noises these would be squawking. 

As I reflect  on restaurants visited recently, it occurs to me that those without tablecloths are often the most reliable.  And in straightened times, the best value too. I will say no more about The Curry Club in the Strand, also known as the Bloggers Retreat, about which Barrett Bonden and I and others, have blogged with varying degrees of enthusiasm . Another  example is Pasta Pasta on the seafront  at St Leonards-on-Sea, where Heidi and I sat in the sunshine  a few days ago, and ate deep fried twists of bread dough, called fricatelli  dipped in a spicy tomato sauce, and drank a cherry flavoured rosato wine from Verona.

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.