Archives for category: Misc. Fiction

Cape blue waterlily (Nymphaea capensis var. zanzibariensis) (8103217895)

By Bob Peterson from North Palm Beach, Florida, Planet Earth! [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Another short story from the hip.

Fenstone’s Flower

Fenstone was in his favourite pottering spot for a not quite warm, though there be some sunlight day. He had finished washing the Saturday breakfast crockery and cutlery, scraping down the plates of scrambled egg residue and croissant crumbs. This was Peggy and Fenstone’s Saturday morning treat and it had been for the last 15 years since they moved into this house with the garden.

The garden had at first proved a novelty after the small patch of grass behind their starter house. The patch of grass had seemed a social upgrade on the balcony of potted tomato plants he had nurtured in the flat preceding the starter house. Part of the novelty of the full garden was its spaciousness and the two fully grown trees that had established themselves on the plot. Further novelty was the weekends spent idling in garden centres, picking out shrubs and plants. Peggy soon wearied of these outings. They took her away from chattering sessions with her friends. Fenstone was quite happy to continue the trips on his own. He went more often than was needed to replace the seasonal annuals or seek out vegetable seeds for fresh sowing.

Fenstone’s garden centre escapes were as regularly scheduled as his public garden visits. Botanical gardens, country house gardens, stately home gardens of all sizes, near and abroad either featured on Fenstone’s travel wish list or welcomed him as an eager visitor. But all these other places could not replace his favourite corner, his own garden.

Over the decade and a half they had lived in the house, it had become Fenstone’s garden. In the early days, he had employed the garden maintenance firm, a group of reliable Spanish men, all related they claimed, who had worked wonders at giving the space character and depth. What had been a square of grass, sided by two beds and sentried by the two established trees was transformed into a wonderland entered into by a curving path. The fish pond with a few blue water lilies, a delightful addition for many years, had recently been filled in at Peggy’s request. With small grandchildren around, the open water was now a hazard. Fenstone had salvaged the bulbs from the water lily plants and had promised them to another gardening friend.

After the Spaniards had returned home to retire, Fenstone had employed whichever young lad in the suburb felt inclined to earn some money sweeping, mowing, weeding or planting.The garden was now established and in his own retirement Fenstone had the time, and fortunately, the physical strength to continue with much of the maintenance himself. And nothing brought him more joy than the thought of a half or full day in his garden, and especially pottering in his potting shed.

In the potting shed Fenstone had coaxed all manner of vegetables, soft fruits and flowers through the cold and overcast winters. Last season’s strawberries were a great success and this year he planned to nurture a rainbow of fragrant hyacinths that would be planted at intervals in the wonderland. The bulbs had arrived the day before, so on this Saturday, Fenston had set the day aside to prepare the pots with nourished soil and plant the bulbs. Fenstone had spent many autumns preparing pots for not yet germinated seeds and bulbs, as well as fledgling seedlings. The potting shed was the preparation shed for Fenstone’s vision for the coming flowering season.

Fenstone pushed the water lily bulbs that he was drying out aside. He opened the bad of hyacinth bulbs and spread them out on his workshelf. The potting began.


It was not until six months later, in May, that Peggy went into the potting shed. Rotting plants, soil and spiders were not to her liking, but once spring arrived and it felt as though the world was brightening, she ventured out into the garden and into Fenstone’s old hideaway. She looked around and sighed. He had been such a stickler for order and it was evident even here, even six months later. The compost bags piled according to type, the garden soil and potting soil separated, not a cracked or grossly chipped pot in sight. Even the spider webs hung from their proper places in the roof corners.

The most orderly sight of all was Fenstone’s ranks of flowering hyacinths. Their scent was too strong for Peggy and she started to sneeze. This was not enough to put her off, today she had to clear out the shed because the movers would be arriving in four weeks. She did not have time to dawdle. She called out to her daughter in the kitchen, “Helen, sorry to trouble you, my hayfever’s playing up. Would you mind giving me a hand down here?”

Helen came down the winding path to the potting shed, “Wow! They are spectacular! Such a pity Dad isn’t here to see the results. And what’s the blue one over there? It looks like a water lily flower? I’m pretty sure they grow and survive potted in soil.”

Peggy and Helen stepped over to the opened flower, “Let’s take it up to the house and give some of Fenstone’s gardening friends a call. This calls for an expert’s opinion.”

Helen placed the pot on the kitchen windowsill. At dusk, the flower closed up. Peggy asked two of Fenstone’s gardening friends to come over the next day to confirm what they had witnessed.

The next morning Helen went down to put on the kettle. She scanned the windowsill for the opened flower. All that was left in the pot was a shrivelled stem.

Congratulations Balloon Image

ScrapsYard.com | Congratulations | Forward this Picture

Here is another short story completed for the exercise of completion. This tale developed in response to a balloon in a florist’s van.
I’m also love to hear your ideas for story prompts. Please share them with me by dropping a line below.

Hand-tie

Harry arrives at 11am to pack the orders for afternoon delivery. His daughter, Sam, now owns and runs the florist’s shop, but he still goes in Monday to Saturday to fill the van with hand-ties and bouquets. It gives him a reason to be out and about during the week and handing over people’s greetings and wishes have always been his favourite part of working in the business. The daily deliveries allow him to still be part of this.

It is a Thursday morning like many others, with the exception that this promises to be the first warm day when spring turns toward summer.

Sam puts down the ‘phone.
“Liz, we have an add an extra hand-tie plus balloon order for late-morning delivery. Do you have time, or should I arrange it?” The ‘phone rings again. At the same moment a customer steps in with a pot of ornamental tomatoes from the display outside.

“Seraphine’s Flowers. How may I help?” Sam answers the ‘phone and smiles in acknowledgement at the customer. At that moment, Liz steps forward from the arranging counter to handle the plant sale. In a day there would be long lulls and then a cluster of requests and sales would occur at once. Between 9.30 and 10am is one such busy time.

The customer leaves with her ornamental tomato wrapped in bright red paper and tied with raffia. Liz turns back to the arranging counter. Sam tears off the receipt for the card sale over the ‘phone.

Liz picks up on their interrupted conversation, “The hand-tie. I can do it.”
“Thank you. And I’ll start this new order.”

They have three new arrangements to prepare, and two from the day before are waiting in the cool back room. When the weather is cooler they line the bouquets at the shop front, where they serve the double purpose of sales temptation and decoration. But the temperatures have been rising this week and last night they set the arrangements under a shelf in the back to keep them fresh. No-one wants to receive wilted, half-dead flowers.

“Hello, hello.” Harry saunters in, jangling his keys and sipping on his take-away coffee from the chain next door, “How many and where are we going today?”
Sam looks over the clipboard, “Two for Terra’s, two residential and an office delivery, Staffield.”
“Let’s get ’em packed in.”
He starts by carrying the first of the two back-room arrangements to Seraphine’s van. Harry’s seasoned. He started here when his mother, Seraphine, opened the store. He knows not to risk carrying arrangements by the strings of the colourful brand-name paper bags. In his early days delivering, he had done so. It only took two or three tumbles of carnations, roses and tulips across the shop floor before he realised the danger of seeming convenience. Carrying two or three arrangements also seems another convenience. Usually two is do-able, but three – again, hardly worth the risk, both of stock and in terms of the time it would take to re-do the bouquet. With great care, he carried the second bunch from the back-room. Sam and Liz bring the other flowers through.
“If that’s it, I’m off.”
“Take care, Dad.” Sam calls out to him.
“I will. And bye Liz. See you tomorrow. ”

Harry has until 3pm to deliver the flowers. That is the goal he sets himself and he usually manages it with ease. If the orders are local and there is someone to sign for each, he can complete the day’s route by lunchtime. He estimates that today might take a little longer. With the roadworks near the hospital, he may be caught up for an extra half-an hour at least.

In the roadworks traffic, Harry entertains himself by tapping on his steering wheel to the radio. The signal changes. He needs to move into the far left lane. And from there he will turn right into Terra Hospital’s parking area. Check, indicate, check, prepare to change lanes. Harry thinks about lunch waiting at home and a gentle round of golf he might enjoy on this sunny afternoon.

Almost everybody in the city is distracted by the warm, clear weather. The driver in the lane alongside Harry receives a text, ‘Beautiful sunny day. All good.’

Playing the messenger had always been Harry’s favourite part of the business. Doing the deliveries still gave him great pleasure, which is why Sam had not employed someone else. She loved seeing her Dad every day and he enjoyed being connected to shop.

Today promises to be the when spring finally thaws. The ‘phone rings. Sam answers, “Seraphine’s Flowers. Good morning.”

“One pretty pink hand-tie, plus a matching balloon to be delivered to Terra’s Hospital Maternity Ward. We’ll have it delivered early this afternoon. Our pleasure.” Sam turns to her assistant, Liz.

The driver in the lane alongside Harry receives a text, ‘Beautiful sunny day. All good.’ He decides to reply to the text; loses attention for a split second. The car catches the florist van’s sliding door and plunges into the flower arrangements. The helium-balloon detaches from the pretty pink hand-tie and floats off over Terra Hospital, taking CONGRATULATIONS into the sky. On impact, Harry’s body suffers such shock that he has a heart attack.


During the first months of posting on my blog in 2012, I opened this short piece with a reminiscence about the red creepers that draped my undergraduate university during autumn. I went on to comment on the dark evenings that enclose this season in the Northern hemisphere

I tweet much more when I’m in on a chilly autumn evening. Find me on Twitter as @BeadedQuill.
My ramblings may also be found on Facebook: BeadedQuill.
If you prefer paging through a book under a blanket with cocoa at hand, consider one of the titles from my BeadedQuill Bookstore at Blurb.

Illustration details: Cropped and re-tinted image by Jules Grandgagnage (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons.

Illustration courtesy of the Old Design Shop.

Illustration courtesy of the Old Design Shop.

Leo’s Entries” is one of two poems written last year in the format of journal entries by respected (male) authors. The other was “Philip’s Log“.

Both poems were part of a year long project which culminated in a book, In the Ocean: a year of poetry.

Hedgehog 1210127

Hedgehog illustration © Nevit Dilmen CC-BY-SA-3.0 or GFDL, via Wikimedia Commons

There is a well-known Afrikaans short story Die Gog (The Thing) about an unidentified creature nursed and doted upon by a couple. The thing (die gog) is kept in a box, feed and protected. Eventually the couple’s mutual obsession destroys their relationship. This serves as an imagined prelude to the un-dramatic domestic tragedy of Die Gog. The time and cultural context of the story has been revised.

Ben was so proud of himself the autumn when they moved into the flat. A regular role in a TV series plus a key character in an historical Shakespeare had brought in a sizeable amount towards the deposit. A percentage of Graciella’s earnings from two season’s worth of catalogue shoots had topped up the amount. Then his parents had offered a windfall for the first three months of mortgage payments. He and Graciella had made an offer in early August. In October they moved in. Things had moved quickly, but everything else had moved so slowly for them in those early years of the recession that this acceleration seemed right. It was welcome, timely compensation.

Their relocation into the flat was a young couple’s move. Ben and Graciella believed they could save by doing it themselves. The smaller items – books, plants, linen, winter jackets and three pairs of forgotten ski boots – had been carried piecemeal over to the new flat in the week leading up to the mammoth move. Dozens of friends were roped in, but Min and Steve were the stalwarts who gave up a Saturday to hard labour. On that final day of the clear-out, they filled the rented removal van with the larger items of furniture.

“Cuidadoso! Careful! With those drawers,” Graciella called down as Ben and his friend Steve stumbled down the stairs. Min completed a sweep through the bathroom. The contents of the cabinet and windowsill were transferred into a large plastic container. The towels were rolled up into a black plastic bag. Min dragged the bag to the top of the stairs. “We need to take these out on the other side or else they’ll mould.”

In the kitchen, Steven and Ben packed the last of the kitchen utensils, spices and unused boxes of rice, pasta and dried peas. Ben stood up. From the kitchen counter, he gathered up a pile of letters. He tipped it into a carrier bag, but missed. Bills, take-away fliers and miscellaneous loose papers scattered across the floor. A scuffed, soil-marked note in his handwriting caught Ben’s attention. He picked it up.


Only two summers previously Ben had posted half-a-dozen humble advertisements. Acting work had been in short supply since his graduation and he needed to be out of the house. His parents meant well with their questions. How many job applications have you sent this week? What does your agent suggest about improving your likelihood of castings? Don’t you think it’s time to consider something sensible to fall back on? Have you called the academy about that electrician’s training course?

His parents wanted a materially sound future for him. He imagined the question marks as shepherds’ crooks intended to pull him out of a dangerous ravine. Any misstep in this ravine could mean a tumble further from redemption. He knew their questions were meant to propel him towards action. But wires and circuits held no appeal. Ben’s desire was to be under the spotlight. He was the golden boy of the stage. Light, bright, fire, bright, that was what he wanted to capture and spin into a performance. If Ben could not find that, there had to be some preferable alternative.

His parents’ badgering drove him to the local council library where he meant to read the classics. Instead, with the other men of his restless tribe, the immigrant pensioners and homeless, Ben waited his turn in the understood queue for the daily newspapers.

And Ben paged through glossy gardening books. While he read through the How To’s and seasonal To Do’s, a bulb of remembrance sprouted. “Today Ben, we shall go down to the allotment.” He recalled two years of his grandmother’s Saturday instruction. A pre-teen Ben had moved from raking leaves to planting seedlings. He graduated to carefully pruning her roses and the small fruit-bearing trees on the allotment. In each of those autumns, he had helped his grandmother gather up material for a night-licking bonfire.

From his parents’ printer, Ben took two pieces of blank A4, folded them into eight and marked out in his best handwriting:

Graduate with gardening
and DIY skills.
No job too small.
Call Ben 0784 7889 387

It was his message in a bottle. Of course, he could have printed those twelve words. But Ben’s intention was for his handwriting to ignite someone by his call. Robed in his handwriting, he felt his request wore a fitting costume. He paid for window-space in the shopping hubs of his parents’ suburb and a neighbouring postcode. Posting those advertisements cost him two nights from his pint fund.

Time passed and he had to decide whether or not to renew these window placements. It weighed on Ben like a dismal final dress rehearsal. The show did not look promising, but to pull all at this moment would be defeatist. The day before he had to make the final decision, he received the first call of interest: an elderly, flat-dwelling lady who wondered if he would tidy the communal garden and possibly help her with her laundry.

“Your careful handwriting,” she sighed, “amongst all those printed notices, it touched me like a small flame.”

For the remainder of that summer, Ben spent three days a week gardening and following up on small DIY tasks: patching peeling paint, replacing door handles, securing unstable shelves. Most of his work was clustered around Lanhedge Avenue, thanks to the recommendations of his first caller. A For Sale sign in the road stoked his imagination. Me, ever buy in this area? Ben thought he was stretching reality.

On Thursday and Friday nights Ben performed in a pub-theatre production. He gave of his time as a favour for a director friend. With sunlight by day and spotlights on the boards at night, Ben felt ignited. The crowd was young and drawn in by the promise of pie plus pint with live entertainment more than the content of the play. Ubu Roi was heavy viewing for youthful summer audiences. The staging pulled in regular crowds. It was sensationalist on a budget, which meant it included gratuitous nudity and plastic turds. Together with the curious, many came to support the cast and technical crew, and thanks to the pub’s marketing, the run had been well-attended. Among the audience members had been Graciella. Ben grinned at the memory.

Graciella had little interest in theatre, pies or pubs. She had come with a group of friends of her housemate’s and because she was new in town. Someone in her group knew someone who knew someone in the technical crew. Ben had been introduced to the gaggle after the performance. After removing his character garb, he had sought her out at the bar. Of course, she was the loveliest woman in the room. She tossed her hair and magnetism. As a master of captivation, Ben knew he had to make an impression. In his pocket he found one of his handwritten advertisements. If you ever need some gardening or DIY… It sounded so cheesy. But it worked.

“Your handwriting?” she asked.

Three weeks after moving in, Ben and Graciella invited the couple above them and the three flat-sharers on the top floor to join them for a bonfire night. The novelty of enough space to burn leaves in his own back garden prompted Ben to suggest the gathering.

Ben, recently returned from ten days of filming on the coast, spent the Saturday afternoon raking up leaves. He laid out the vital fuel logs at the bonfire’s base and angled the structural supports. He then piled up a pyramid of leaves, dried twigs, bark and garden debris. Ben stood back to admire his work. A chill whipped up. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. In the recesses of his right pocket, a scrap of paper scratched his hand. He pulled it out. It was the old soil-marked advertisement. He smiled at his talisman. Handing them over had always brought him good fortune. It was time for this piece to join the tinder. He would hand this last one over to the bonfire.

All seven inhabitants of 27a Lanhedge Avenue stood around Ben’s bonfire. He lit it ceremoniously by setting prepared cones of paper alight and inserting them in the pyramid. The twigs and leaves caught and everyone oohed at the ever-enlarging fingers of flame. The heat increased. A slick of blue could be spotted every now and then in the fire.

“Benni, I hear a noise.” Graciella pointed to the base of Ben’s glowing pyramid.

All were directed to a scuttling sound at the bonfire’s base paired with a faint squeaking in the flames. On instinct, Ben stepped forward. The dangerous heat of the bonfire stopped him.

“Quick, get the bucket of water!”

One of the flat-sharers stepped forward and doused the nearest corner of the pyramid. It collapsed in a sizzle. Sodden ash and twigs shaped themselves around a carapace with protruding spikes. Everyone took a step towards the scene. Ben picked up the oven gloves, which had been alongside the tray of warmed spanakopita. He slid his hand under the grey ball. It uncurled. Everyone gathered around and stared at the hedgehog. Two pink hands and two pink feet twitched back at them.

“You’d better find a box and wrap him up. That little thing’s going to need some TLC.”

February 2014

"Jasminum officinale - Bot. Mag. 31, 1787" by Botanical Magazine - Botanical Magazine 31. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons - http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jasminum_officinale_-_Bot._Mag._31,_1787.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Jasminum_officinale_-_Bot._Mag._31,_1787.jpg

“Jasminum officinale in Botanical Magazine, 31, 1787. Licensed for use under public domain via
Wikimedia Commons

A short story from some time ago:

It is a long climb up the stony mountain, through biting mists and pounding midday sun. From the crevices mountain flowers cheer the weary and tumbling water droplets happily refresh those travellers who whisper of their thirst. The higher the climb, the more the climber’s bones and muscles groan and yet everything sings until the oxygen needed for breathing is taken up for singing.

Here stumbles another traveller, lightheaded with a promised view that is always but a few more steps. She stares ahead on the path, turns a bend and there before her looms a vast pair of doors across the path. They are heavy, imposing wooden doors with large hinges. The doors open. Since there is no other way around the path but to climb up the mountain, our traveller takes off her hat, wipes her arm across her face and wanders tentatively inside.

The darkness is cool. The air is freshened by a faint smell of jasmine. A warm light pulses at the end of the walk. A figure sits in the light-

Our traveller approaches.

“Good morning, but may I ask, What are you doing on my path?”
“On your path? Hmmmm,” pontificates the figure. “Am I on your path? Are you on my path? Are we perhaps just meeting?”
“Well,” puffs our traveller, “You look as though you have answers.”
“And why do you say that about me?”
“The doors, the light, the Hmmmm-ing”
“What are your questions for me?”

Our traveller scratches in her bag. She pulls out a dog-eared notebook and a red-and-black striped 2B pencil.
“So you are a list writer?”
“Aha,” she replies absentmindedly as she inscribes.
She finishes one page, then a second. She pauses to think, then scribbles out a third. She tears all three pages from the ring-binding. As she hands over the demands in a flourish and a triumphant “There,” the little tear tassels flutter in the jasmine air.

“Are you in a hurry?” asks the figure.
“Well, I want to see the view.”
“Hmmmmm.”

There is a pause that lengthens into awkward silence. Our traveller shifts her weight from right foot to left, left to right.
“Well, I hope you going to read my list of questions.”
The figure looks at each page very intently, very carefully. He squints, he stares.
“And?” asks our traveller.
He turns the pages upside down, vertical, horizontal. Our traveller begins to tap her impatient foot a little.
“And?”
The figure continues to scrutinize the pages, as if he is trying to see between the fibres.
“And?”

Finally the figure holds out the pages.
“What? You want me to take them back? But those are all my questions. About everything. I thought you had answers.”

Another of those pontification pauses.
The figure replied, “But where is the question for me?”

Our traveller turns over the pages before stuffing them into her bag. She turns to leave and try her luck climbing up the mountain. As she turns, she notices that the figure is no longer in the light but is standing next to her asking –

“What is your name? How are you? How can I help you?”

And the air was still fresh with the faint smell of jasmine and questions.

March 2007

bq2_2_reasonably_small.gifIn a couple of future posts, I shall be sharing some longer pieces of writing that have been gathering dust. Fear not, the poems will continue to be around. Dear readers, I hope that you’ll enjoy all the words on offer.
Yours, BQ


T: @BeadedQuill
F: BeadedQuill
Books by BeadedQuill

SSA40433

Looking Back at Cuttings and Proteas: a log entry about growth and development

Two years and 217 posts ago the BeadedQuill blog was born. On 15th June 2013, after decades of hiding my fiction writing in notebooks, I decided to share it with the wider world. To my 123 signed-up blog followers, I say a thank you. To my 659 Twitter followers and 24 Facebook followers, I also say thank you. I hope you derive some pleasure from my ramblings. To my other readers and supporters, I send appreciation across the cyber-sphere. To those of you who have purchased my work, long life and good health to you! Some of the profits will go into my National Insurance contribution.

Since last year, I have published two books, Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys and In the Ocean: a year of poetry. These books incorporate 129 poems written between April 2013 and April 2014. In the last 6 weeks I have posted a further 9 “fresh” poems. Since starting this blog in 2012, the grand total therefore stands at three available titles and 158 poems written by me out there in the world (and possibly a few rogue ones in letters and on scraps of paper). I mention all this as it has been said, “What can be measured can be assessed”. Productivity for April 2013 – 2014 stood at a poem every 2.8 days.

I’ll spare you the productivity tally for blog postings, but will say that being accountable to a public readership compels me to produce copy. This in itself has been a valuable working method that helped with producing articles and the two long-form projects on which I am currently working. (Spoiler: a potential novel and a non-fiction book about travel.)

I continue to work on brand BeadedQuill. This coming year I would really like to focus on matters such as ‘income stream’ and ‘product development’, ‘marketing’ and ‘audience/market development’. To be honest, these topics tire and frighten me a little. At present, I just want to write and practise (plus a bit of Bachata thrown in for diversion).  The business plan, currently a collection of scribbled notes and mind-maps, needs to be formalised.

In the year ahead, I must once again look into the following: journal submissions, the possibility of securing a literary agent, more readings and public appearances. I need to travel! (Buenos Aires for a tango holiday, ideally.) A change of landscape and diversion will recharge me, I believe. I’ve considered investigating doctoral research in creative practice.

This time last year I was in excellent health, after recovering fully from a nasty turn in 2012. This year, I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, I experienced a little “flare” (the doctor’s poetic take on the matter) about four weeks ago. A glut of corticosteroids is bringing me ‘round, with a journey into highways of insomnia, mild hallucination (and hearing things), emotional intensity and a pervading drug-induced buzz. On occasions like this, the every two steps forward on the health journey seem undermined by the five steps back. Nonetheless, I pick myself up and go back to start.

“Zen mind, beginner’s mind is apparently a desired state for the eternal student. Encounter moments and activity as though for the first time. In this way you will let it teach you.” I wrote this as the opening of my very first post. This is still such a challenging approach. When your efforts seem to show progress, this provides direction and solace. I don’t want to keep going back to start – with The Writing or with health, or with any other number of circumstances of my life. It is nice to feel as though I’m building something.

To counter beginner’s despair, I say to myself, “There must be something redemptive here.” In addition to the number crunching at the opening, I am pleased to acknowledge that another year later –indeed, three years and seven months after my first conscious day of applying pen to paper – I am still engaged in the labour of Being A Writer.

Since my first post, I have also figured out how to insert a link to my Twitter account.

Seen from the bench

In our lifetimes, most of us will never preside over a court on a throne. Yet in death, some have been commemorated at a special spot with a dedicated bench. In the woods, gardens and parks I visit, I often stop to read the plaques and imagine the lives of the loved ones described. This poem, “Benefactor of the Blind“, follows from one such moment.

© Copyright David Lally and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

From this time last year: an essay about a painting of Covent Garden rooftops. The image triggered a series of personal memories about school art history lessons and my ‘London Granny’.