Butterflies

Snippets

A straggly buddleia has pushed its way through the asphalt of the residents' car park adjoining my garden, right next to the fence.  Apparently, according to a rather fascinating TV programme on weeds I caught the other week, it is categorised as an invasive species in the UK and is spreading like wildfire, often on the most unpromising terrain.  Wikipedia further enlightens me that in the US states of Oregon and Washington buddleia is considered a noxious weed, something like Japanese Knotweed.  But I will resist the surreal temptation to have at it with a flamethrower and a machete a la The Day of the Triffids; the butterflies love it and that's reason enough to leave well alone.

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More oomph and confidence these past weeks though by evening energy levels are flat. But then I've always been a lark rather than an owl. Pleased that I'm managing to tolerate the full daily dose of probiotics after months of painstakingly building up the dosage.  Slowly does it - each time I've tried to increase the amount too quickly the result has been horrendous, they're powerful little blighters are probiotics. The naturopath wants to put me onto some cutting-edge antifungal magic potion over the autumn so maybe this improvement will convince him it's time.

From childhood until very recently I've eaten badly.  Not all the time, but periodic compulsive - and I do mean compulsive - junk food eating binges were the main opt-out when the anxiety and stress were overwhelming.   The digestive system took the punishment seemingly without complaint.  Not any longer. Some of it is probably genetic; my father had similar digestive issues.

Now the gut has finally said Enough. It's started throwing temper tantrums.  And it's telling me loud and clear how much it's suffered.  So I don't feel self-pity at the pain and weakness and headaches when they hit.  Natural justice.  High time for me to make reparations and look after the digestive system better in the future, which I'm happy to do.  Maybe in time I'll even learn to love it .....


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The taxi driver was middle aged and wiry with a tattoo on his left forearm and had his car radio tuned to Classic FM.  A Mozart symphony welcomed me in.   Nice, I said.  This kind of music keeps me sane, he replied. A pause.  Do you mind if I put a CD on?  You'll love this, it sends shivers down my spine each time I hear it.   He pressed a few buttons and turned up the volume.

As we waited at the traffic lights in the 4 x 4, Noah Stewart's voice enveloped us. Schubert's Ave Maria.  Words would have been out of place. In the blustery afternoon sunshine we moved on when the lights changed, crossed the river and headed for home.

Smell

The smell of cooking garlic floats in through the open window from a neighbour's kitchen.  For an instant I'm back in the 1980s in Paris outside a restaurant on a humid summer's evening.  Never mind the madeleines, it's smell not taste that does it for me.

I read once that smell is the most evocative of the senses, that it accesses the greatest amount of memory stored in the computer that is the brain.  I believe it.  Woodsmoke, oh yes especially woodsmoke. An earlier French memory from my au pair days in 1968 of the host family's chateau (they had aristocratic forebears).    Situated near Troyes, seventeenth century or earlier, there were a multitude of  beautiful but shabby and dilapidated high-ceilinged rooms and, above all, massive fireplaces where logs from the estate had burned for several centuries. The smell of woodsmoke had over time permeated the walls and it hung in the air, even in high summer. I can't describe the intensity of that smell, not that it was unpleasant, rather it was subtly sensual and thus almost frightening to my awkward and dislocated eighteen-year old self.

And also:  Roasting coffee beans. Lilac. Horses. Autumn mornings. New books.  Creosote.  Brief but oh-so-detailed scenes from the past - places, seasons, houses, people - attach themselves to each one.

Hoping for more. Counting on more. Smells and memories.