Sadflowers

The logo at the top of this page tells a sad story.

My sister drove to Nottingham from Christchurch and met me from the train. It was one of this July’s wiltingly hot days that have now faded to a hazy heyday. We stopped to buy flowers on the drive to the hospital where we were visiting our grandparents. We picked a purple bunch for grandma and Rom saw sunflowers and suggested we get them for granddad.

On entering the hospital nobody batted an eyelid. Used to visitors, the staff do not waste time welcoming, they let you get on with locating the right ward yourself. Once we had done so and passed beyond the hand-disinfection point (with the percentage of visitors who comply recorded in marker pen), it was here, on pushing open the doors to grandma’s ward, that we elicited a reaction: “No flowers!” bellowed a chorus of nurses. We stopped in our tracks. “No flowers on this ward,” they continued.

“Where are they allowed?” we enquired uselessly.

“Not on many wards.”

One offered to look after them until after our visit when we could take them home. As if this was some consolation. As if we’d partly bought them for ourselves anyway.

Walking through St Pancras that evening from the train I knew I must have painted a happy picture: the woman in the short dress carrying a bunch of sunflowers. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I was the saddest girl carrying the saddest flowers.

I wonder if sunflowers will be admitted to the funeral.