It was one of those drab and dismal Autumn days. Squally rain and cold with no light, depression in an afternoon. Grandma was still in her wheelchair (as she’d been hit by a car and her knee had broken). I was in mine. Fun. 

We needed to brighten up, so together we brightened the room.

Lay a fire, bank candles around the hearth, put the lamps on, throw orange peel on the fire to scent the room, put on the radio or Songs of the Auvergne. 

Pick flowers; marguerite, lavender, rosemary, beautiful crimson-blush-velvet nicotiana. A rain-swept and battered flower, sticky with her sap but so bright.

I love nicotiana, that deep scent enveloping you, the swathes of them strung out across the gardens like joyful banners. Summer growing before your eyes.

Place the flowers in a honey-toned vase of old staffordshire pottery. Stillness.

Then the sun emerged, shafting over the mountains, into our sitting room sanctuary. Lending, in it’s dying, hope of spring to come. Caressing the blossoms. A shot of hope.