What I love about Spring is how unguarded it is. It just comes out. The audacious yellow of a daffodil, the unashamed splurge of a sow giving birth to slippery piglets, the exuberant "we just have to gambol RIGHT NOW" of lambs. So I was in the David Hockney exhibition this weekend (fifth time- just like Spring I don't stop coming).
And my fingers started surreptitiously to stroke a cream egg nestled in my trench coat pocket. I walked through the second room, mind starting to wonder forward from the current set of retrospectives, to the prospect of cream egg that no doubt would befall me. I imagined how strong it would taste. How sweet. I was pretty sure I could smell it. Faintly as a crocus. But no less distinct.
As we came to the third room.. Yes, we. I had company. Besides the whole of a packed Saturday morning RA exhibition. As we came to the third room, the thought of a creme egg about to give birth to flavour became unbearable. I couldn't deny myself. I held up my large blue leather clutch ducking behind it, sank my teeth in. Eurgh, foil. Never mind. It was glorious. Spring had sprung!
Some people gave me a glance. Hmm, maybe they can tell. I'll pretend to look at the art. Oh, it's got a little too soft in my hot fingers now. Before I knew it it was everywhere. In my hair, on the paintings, in other people's hair. Spring had indeed come to the Royal Academy (twenty twelve). What shall I do???
In it went to the clutch. A few finger licks and I was restored. Shame about the inside of my bag. You could dip soldiers in that now!
No comments:
Post a Comment