They look, here, a little more wilting than I'd realised ... And yes, endless roses. They are an antidote to another slow, slow day of house sorting and clearing. It takes such an age to discriminate between what one really wants to keep; what one looks at with a kind of sad longing for one's past, but doesn't really want to hang onto (even though one would like that past back, please); what someone else might want, or use; what someone might find useful - but probably won't; and what has been kept completely incomprehensibly. I wish I knew what persuaded my father to keep endless crackling plastic containers of, for example, used hinges, and picture hooks - but to have disposed of (sold, I presume) say, my mother's gold fountain pen, and her typewriter. By now, there's no chance at all of these ever re-emerging, although there are a lot of carefully curated used plant ties and empty jam jars.
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