I am writing this mid powercut at the cottage in a séance-like ring of flames, holding a Victorian pewter candle-holder in one hand and trying to type with the other. At first, I was mildly excited to arrive home - red and certainly ruffled - to an unresponsive house, mildly exhilarated, even, to feel so cut off in the wild evening storm. After a bit of non-committal poking at the fuse box in the dark and spidery shed, I was getting ready to relive my days of 'making do' in the African bush and cut some kindling, light the odd hurricane lamp and soak in the starry night. Except that it isn't particularly starry and we are also helpfully out of oil and wood and instead I am having to make do with a load of old scented candles which are just giving me a headache. I don't seem to do early nights these days and anyway, the window in the back bedroom is clattering against its frame and the bath is full of leaves and anxious moths and I am actually just feel a little bit spooked.
And so I'm blogging. Hello.
Last week our little studio was at max capacity with flowers; overflowing with blowsy bounty - apple blossom and columbine and lilac and sculptural magnolia branches.
April was definitely the month of the tulip. Tulip fever overcame me on several occasions; I apologise to our Instagram friends who had to cope through all the slutty tulip posts.
On Thursday we did the flowers for a drinks reception and evening lecture by BBC Arts Editor Will Gompertz at the Royal Institute of British Architects in a cavernous, beautiful but austere room that swallowed our majestic, branchy urn arrangements and fat tulips gratefully and somewhat greedily.
We cruised down the M40 in the van at witching hour, exhausted, eating Fruitella, listening to some strange electro-punk-rock (is that what the kids listen to these days?) and it was all jolly nice.
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