“There are flowers everywhere, for those who bother to look.” – Henri Matisse
I need flowers everywhere. Delicate petals for gentleness, brilliant colours for beauty, green stems for strength. I love them.
I think about beautiful things and look for flowers on Lower Marsh as I stroll along my neighbourhood. This is an area of town with character bursting out of every brick. Independent cafes, a fresh market of everything weird and wonderful, and lots of vintage shops. Now I cannot imagine living anywhere else than a street where the trees are dressed in fairylights. They’re like majestic ladies dressed for a fancy evening ball.
It almost feels like living outside of London because all the little shops close early in the afternoon except for the bars, which are all distinctly exotic. When these shops are open, the keepers are the friendliest bunch and I love visiting them to hear how things are going.
To sit in the Scooter Caffe is to sit in the ultimate mishmash of a mismatched ensemble. There a rusty fan, there a crumbling atlas-covered table, there a cat sleeping. Tatty books, a real scooter by the bar, paper flowers the size of my head. During the day I am paper flowers and road maps and sleeping cats. A sip of a cappuccino and the flowers dance in the breeze coming through the door. Day turns into night and I am just as mismatched in my grandma’s old skirt, glossy black boots, and bouquet of pale roses.
There are flowers everywhere.
I’ll have them in my hand, in my books, on my dresses. Flowers colourful, coffee black.
At the moment, I’m walking through la vie an rose.