STUMBLING home at six in the morning, bleary eyed in the wake of the rising sun, does strange things to a person. Follow this with a fitful morning-to-afternoon sleep and you're bound to be seeing the world in a form of heightened sights and sounds - senses assaulted on all fronts.
This was how I spent my Sunday afternoon. Meandering in a daze through the suburban streets of South West London. And there was one particular vision that kept recurring before me...
It appears to be rose season. From tight neat blooms to giant cabbage-like heads of petals, not a single rose bush that I passed was lacking in a beautiful blossom or two; or three, or four, or more. I was bedazzled by their beauty.
But most overwhelmingly (bear in mind here that I was in an extremely fragile state at the time) I was struck by the intensity of the perfume that they released. I was literally stopped dead in my tracks at the wonderful aroma that escaped from one particular specimen: a dense bundle of deep fuchsia petals whose smell was so strong and sweet I wouldn't have been surprised if a drop of rose essence had trickled directly from it.
And so I suggest that we all don our rose tinted spectacles, and where possible bask in the rosy glow of the moment.
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