My mother’s garden is blooming nicely, and so it should be, the amount of hours and work she puts into it. We’ve had our rose bushes for years, growing faithfully, year after years, in shades of pink, red, mauve, peach and white. Those rose bushes are the oldest thing I remember from my childhood in our garden (well, that and an apple tree we used to have, which our neighbours decided to cut down because it inconvenienced their plans to build an elaborate shed. Rude, I know).
I don’t see myself as a ‘girly-girl’, but I’ve inherited my love of flowers from my mother – she’s spent years tending to her garden, buying bouquets of daffodils, roses and gerberas to put in her special crystal vase on the kitchen table – and it’s something I would like to continue in my own home one day. My view is that you can have as many expensive trappings and furnishings in a house, but all you really need is a pretty bunch of flowers in a vase to bring life to your house.
For my mum, it’s lilies and roses. For me, gerberas and tulips. But nevertheless, whenever I see these pink roses, which are an odd, almost old-fashioned pink (think shiny party dresses and Cyndi Lauper pink lipstick from the 80s), I always think of my mum’s roses, growing faithfully in our garden, year after year, showing their faces to the sun.