OPENER / ANDREW TUCK
In bloom
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On Monday, England will take another step out of lockdown that will include non-essential shops being allowed to open as well as restaurants and bars permitted to serve food and drinks, if alfresco. In London these establishments have been closed since December. This week, as you’ve been looking through shop and pub windows, there has been a small army of people polishing brass, replacing old winter stock for summer looks, painting walls, finally taking down their Christmas decorations and catching up over a cigarette with colleagues who they have not seen for weeks. It’s only a modest leap but it feels like the moment before a party begins. Who’ll blow up the balloons?
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Once a week at 08.00 I see Trini. She is a woman of endless patience and such calmness when faced with stupidity and people crucifying her culture that she should be rewarded with a glistening medal. Trini is my Spanish teacher. “Now you remember the imperative?” she’ll say, then watch as the lights fade all around and a look of trepidation creeps across my face. This week she had found something “that simply explains subject and object pronouns and related syntax in Spanish sentences”. I read it. It might as well have been the user’s manual for the Hadron Collider. But I really like her unswerving confidence that something is getting through. If you go madly freestyle, she stays silent but gives a look that stops you in your tracks and forces you to retrace the stumbling path of your sentence until you see the dead body of an error that you tried to nonchalantly jump over. At least she knows she has job security – this mission will never come to an end.
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Hairdressers also open on Monday. But most are booked out for weeks and my slowness on the speed dial means I will have to wait another fortnight to see my lock-lopper. Now, I could be disloyal but I succumbed to tonsorial temptation when I found myself in the same unshorn state after the last lockdown eased – and it all went badly wrong. The next day, looking very neat, I bumped into Jackson on his way to work. It’s hard to cover up such unfaithfulness, unless you quite literally cover it up with a hat. So, for now, I shall look like a cross between a saluki hound and a clump of washed-up seaweed and be proud that I have done the right thing. But if you do hear about any spare appointments…
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A friend’s dog has died. But it had a good life and a name that caused much entertainment. He called the dog Taxi, which meant that whenever he shouted out its name, he risked London cab drivers screeching to a halt next to him. I heard another good one in the park this week: Spuds, as in potatoes, and in the past I have also met a Bucket, an Elbow and a pair of pomeranians called Dolce and Gabbana. All, you’ll concur, potential park head-turners if hollered in the right way. So far, Macy the fox terrier has declined the offer of being renamed Fire or Thief.
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Last Sunday the spring sun shone and it felt as though every tree had selected the exact same moment to put on a lavish display of blossom in bubblegum pinks and brittle whites. Boughs bent with boastful blooms. I watched as people waited for their turn to stand under various particularly grand displays to have their pictures taken. Every now and then a tease of wind would dislodge a confetti-shake of petals. Nature had demanded that people witness its beauty, and young and old they came as supplicants. Who needs Kyoto? Back at work this past week several colleagues asked, “Did you see the blossom?” That’s what happens when everything is closed. I wonder whether we’ll take notice of such pleasures when the pubs are open.