There’s just something about daffodils. Seeing them stand proudly, being battered by the wind and frozen by the hail, born too soon. They normally start to bloom end January, early February but the cold spell this year lasted much longer than usual. So, they waited. Slowly, their yellow petals emerged, shining in the early Spring sun. Now, the whole drive-way is lined with them- golden daffodils, those optimistic flowers.
You know when people talk about 1980 something, the year of the heatwave and you think, that’s great, but those don’t exist anymore, especially not in England. Summer 2016. Finally, I can refer to 2016 in 10 years time as the year of the heatwave too. Not one, but a succession of them, sparking BBC articles covering how best to get sleep in a heatwave, causing runways to melt and train tracks to be deemed too hot for use. For me, it meant being able to spend the whole day under the sun umbrella, sapphire blue skies with cotton candy clouds, and frying my phone if I accidentally left it in the sun too long.
I realised that this was probably the last birthday I’ll spend at home. Home. That’s a loaded word, with so many meanings. Having a place to call home is important to so many of us, some people spend their whole lives searching for one. Having never lived in one place for more than three years, one might argue that I have never really had a home, many houses maybe, many places passed through, always transient.
Postcards, ticket stubs, keychains, shot glasses, magnets, napkins, receipts, boarding passes. The list of pointless souvenirs and momentos we find ourselves bringing back from our holiday is endless. Each flight we take, each restaurant we eat in, each museum or concert or park we visit, we insist on buying/keeping/stealing (ok maybe not the last one) something to ‘remember’ our trip by, only to be dumped in a box or the bottom shelf, to be discovered again when moving house.
