It's January, okay? So why are all the hyacinths in all the planters blooming like crazy out in Fairhaven? The air is scented with them as you walk up the street to the yarn shop, thick with them, it's like I can smell April in January. It's heady stuff. I love those things, I associate them very strongly with the grandmother whom I loved so very much and whom I lost nearly twenty years ago now; every time I smell hyacintths I think of her, and it's because of her that my own garden is stuffed with hyacinth bulbs - but mine are only just beginning to poke noses out of the ground and in Fairhaven they all seem to have popped a week ago and the whole place is awash with them.
It's disconcerting, that's what it is.
Meanwhile, I was watching one of the waitresses in the Skylark Cafe, where we went for breakfast, and she had this long thick chocolate-brown braid reaching down to her butt, and I wanted her hair, but BADLY - but I digress. WHat that made me do was suddenly start watching the women in the cafe and those passing out in the street, and within ten minutes I had seen it all - curls, straight hair, shoulder length bobs, gamine cuts, waist-length hair done up in ponytails, upswept buns, long hair short hair and everything in between. I remarked to
People watching is a fascinating thing.
And speaking of hands, there was this one forlorn glove - black moleskin, with a wrist-collar of fake black fur - placed carefully on a protruding bit of wall beside the sidewalk - a single lost glove, too good to throw away, too useless to steal, just left there prominently in the hope that it might call its mate back to it. I wished I had my camera with me, there was something vaguely surreal about that single elegant black glove lying there forlornly surrounded by blooming hyacinths.
And now I REALLY have to get back to my novel...