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Sunday 13 March 2016

Any day now...

I placed the bunches carefully onto the kitchen worktop with the rest of the shopping and began to put everything away. I snipped off the elastic bands holding the stems together and trimmed the ends. Over the next couple of days, I casually glanced at the buds as I walked past the vase. I looked at them whilst making coffee, momentarily eyed them up before going to bed, and glanced at them as I sang. I was looking forward to the beautiful burst of bright yellow that was to come. I waited…and waited…and waited. Finally, by the 4th day, the first bud was beginning to bloom. It seemed a little slow in coming, but at least the flowering was imminent. Making my breakfast the following morning, my heart sank. The flower that had showed so much promise the day before was now already withering away. Then, one by one, the daffodil buds came and went without so much as a fizzle. 
I couldn’t understand it. 1 week of hope, 7 days of willing, 168 hours of expectation led to this moment: the moment I finally realised that they were never going to bloom. 
As I popped the brown stems into the compost bin, I began to think about hope and how, sometimes in life, things don’t quite turn out the way we want them to. With all the want and will in the world, some things are just not meant to be at that precise moment. But what if nothing is for nothing? What if the things that don’t work out eventually lead somewhere else entirely? That other place in which we laugh that little bit louder, dance that little bit lighter and shine just that little bit brighter.

Sunday 6 March 2016

The Elephant Room

As the heavy door clicks quietly shut, the familiar scent of a hotel room embraces me. Keycard goes in, ambient lights come on and I suddenly notice that I have a new friend staying with me. Sitting on the bed, with an upturned trunk, is a sweet little elephant fashioned from various towels. I chuckle. He looks so happy with his floppy ears and stick-on eyes.
My bag plops down next to the desk and I fall onto the bed - it is soft and clean and white. There is a moment where everything seems to stand still.
I decide to do what I always do when I check into a new room: eye-up the shower. A smile creeps across my face as I spot the large Monsoon head glistening high on the freshly painted ceiling. I can’t wait to try it out.
The little bottles of shower gel and shampoo sit on the side and I unwrap the tiny bar of woody-spicy soap. There is something lovely about all the little things found in a hotel room - they make me feel warm and fuzzy, a kind of home away from home.
Back on the bed, I look at my towel friend and wonder how one would even begin to create such a thing. For a second, I think about deconstructing it to see how it is done. But I stop myself. I want to enjoy this moment a little while longer, to float in the peace.
And the last thing I see before I close my eyes is him staring back at me. I snuggle closer, my breathing slows down and I feel myself drift off into a beautiful dreamless sleep.