Yesterday I went up to see the ruin of a house that I have just bought. The soul resident is a potted blood red geranium burning bright against the stone wall. A flower had broken off. I considered putting it in my handkerchief pocket then changed my mind. It might bleed. So I put it in my hat, and forgot about it.
I walked into a bar. The familiar old men cheered me up to the counter, exchanging curious glances with me and each other, then one blurted it out: “Nice flower!” They all caved in laughing. I imitated a Flamenco dance move, badly, which stirred them up further. After several drinks one of them asked which of the two colours of tissue table napkins I preferred? An odd question? Perhaps some kind of sexual entrapment? “Both” I replied, adding “I like both of those colours of paper.” Seemingly contented with the answer he sat down and fashioned this with great care.