HERE IN Lush Places, it is the day of the village flower show.
Car boots are open on the hall forecourt, spilling out dahlias, leeks the length of Chile and spikes of gladioli sharp enough to impale yourself on. Gardeners, bakers, photographers and handicraft makers walk into the hall steadily, carefully, so as not to trip.
A gardener from Lush Corners, Lush Places’ smaller neighbour, clutches a mother-in-law’s tongue and peeks out from the stiff leaves to find her way in through the lobby, which is lined with decorated paper plates all in a class of their own.
She is annoyed with herself because she has left her tomatoes and her longest runner bean at home and time is running out.
There is muttering over marrows too heavily polished and slurpy-looking jam. A late entry is brought in by a tousled-looking woman who stayed up until 3.30am playing Pictionary, making buttonholes and cooking chutney.
Over on the photographic table, people surreptitiously swap their entries around, hoping their top left spot will make their picture stand out that much more than the opposition. People new to the village are eyed suspiciously, as they bring in beautifully decorated cakes and artwork good enough to line the walls of Sladers Yard at West Bay. Bloody incomers.
This year I have submitted eight pictures in the photographic section. I am hoping for success with my entry in the ‘wildlife’ category. It’s a close-up of our local lottery winner pointing at the camera. He has a face carved from Mount Rushmore and hair of steel grey wire.
It could win, I tell him, agreeing to split the prize money if it does.
His eyes light up.
‘That’ll be all of 20p then,’ I say.
Two days ago, an upside down rainbow hung in the blue sky above Lush Places, like a multi-coloured smirk in the air.
Winning entry? I should be so lucky.
