26 August 2010

Smile. Your Cheeks Become Apples.

Bus journeys, conservatories, and APPLES. Oh my.

He has a huge house with a dark-red womb room and sofas and an apple tree dropping this year's glut. It's the girl house. The boy house is next door, attached but separated by the colour - blue for a boy, with a boy face above the front-door. The girl house has a girl face, smiling, welcoming.

But I have astronauts and planets and stars and THE WHOLE OF TIME AND SPACE on my floor. Win.

And beautiful Victoria Park, lush with leaves and lush-as-formed-by-Geordie-lips. Where warehouses seem to breed, populating the area with nonchalant artsy coolness. A bakery called Loafing, where the brownies are piled high, the wooden tables are well-sanded, and many a Guardian shall be read. Walking to Broadway Market, London Fields, Museum of Childhood, strolling strolling all over East London, even marching to Roman Road. Cycling to Columbia Road Market on Sundays and bringing back sunflowers in my basket. So sickening the sweetness eats itself up and becomes stomachable. More than stomachable. Lovely. A taste I am learning to acquire.

I make a promise however. I will eat an apple from the little garden at the back of the big girl house each and every time I visit.


Mike said...

If there is a glut of apples then that tree had rather more water at the right time than my poor apple trees did.
Eating an apple on each visit is ok in the autumn, but how will it work come the winter? The poetic mood is good, but apples fall off the tree after a while and don't grow again until next year. Just saying.

anna said...

Sigh, you have no poetry in your soul. But are correct to point out that I will have no apples in my belly once winter descends. Curses. I will simply munch on warming apple crumbles instead.

Ma said...

The sunflowers may pose a problem mid November too. Shall we find a nice basket for your bike? Then you put the Guardian in it, at least.