I've decided the white and yellow Marguerites are Shasta daisies - thank you for confirming this, Persiflage. I don't know why Shasta should have a capital, but it seems to have*. Marguerites - well, it's a girl's name, so I kind of feel a capital is in order; but then do I write about Daisies?
*My brother has just emailed me to say:
A lot of daisies which are drought resistant grow naturally in California including Shasta daisies, which I think are probably named after Mount Shasta, a rather spectacular volcanic mountain in the north of the state. Many of the Californian hills are so thickly covered in flowers in the spring that they look blue or orange from a distance. The orange ones are Californian poppies.Shasta daisies have a rather pungent smell that attracts flies, or at least Californian flies.
He's my big brother. He knows stuff. He also used to live in California.
Coreopsis, I think. Also rampant, though they lull you into a false sense of security by just sitting there for a few years. Mine will be turning up in Devon shortly, at the rate they're spreading. Australia may not be safe. Watch where you put your garden chair.
Yesterday I decided to tidy out the drawers of the chest in the study in which I keep sentimental archives. My filing system consists of putting things on the top layer in the drawers and shutting them. I hoped that some of them might have lost their sentimental value and I might be able to throw things out and thus allow myself to add further things and still get the drawers shut. I didn't, however, expect that this would be the case. It wasn't.
For example, above you will see a card made for Mr Life by Daughter 1 when she was little. It shows Mr Life sitting up in bed (these are bedside chests to either side of him) on Father's Day. The back of the card shows him on his bike, waving rather camply, possibly because he has only one leg.
Inside she has written:
He is nice,
He is fun.
I like him very much.
He is keen on steam trains.
He likes tennants lager.
But he doesn't smoke.
He's tall and thin.
He's a lot taller than mummy.
He is allergic to citrus fruits of all kinds.
He has sugar or sweetner in his coffee.
He loves breakfast in bed.
He's very nice and picks me up sometimes.
I love him.
Well, I can't throw that away, can I? Especially since it tells us all about his drinking (this is a once-a-month habit, let me reassure you) and the fact that he used to be thin.
My Mother's Day wish
My Mother's Day wish is for you to have a hole day in bed with your meals brot up to you and (Daughter 1) and (Son) and I to give you love and care when ever you wontied it. And your bedclouthes made of silk.
Love from (Daughter 2)
Not sure I ever got the silk bedclouthes, but still - aaaahhh. And the spelling's a bit wonky but look at those apostrophes!
And then this one, from the Son. Aahh again. (He used to call me Mim sometimes.)
M is for Mummy
I is for I love you
M is for, more than a lot, tons
Love from (Son)
The whole drawerful consists of this sort of thing that I can't possibly part with. So when I die, the poor offspring will have to decide what to do with it. Sorry, offspring.
Then there was the day when little Son said to me, "Mummy, I've drawn a rude picture."
I hastened, horrified, to see what he'd depicted.
Not that bad, really.