In the slow, delicate movement from one season to another in Southern California, I always look forward to the trumpet flower. To be honest, I think they bloom pretty solidly - around the place - during mid and late summer, but ours seems to be on a cycle that flowers around now. And it's a plant that Alice had before she met me, and that moved with us five years ago, and so I take particular care to cherish it. Here, it looks as though it's trying to become a piece of French knitting - something I'd completely forgotten about until looking at the photo jogged my memory - which involves a cotton reel and some little nails and weaving wool between them until it comes out in a kind of plait at the far end. And then what? Whatever did I do with these useless lengths of thin woolly rope?
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