In which I briefly wax lyrical about the city of my bones

In which I briefly wax lyrical about the city of my bones

People seem to labor under the misapprehension that nature is something that happens outside of cities. That annoys me, a little; I love this city, and I love all the nature and wildlife that can be found in it. Life and growth burst out through every crack, every brick, every inch of London. The truth is, ‘nature’ is nothing more than the world around us – and really, concrete and coalsmoke are no less ‘natural’ than the sun rising over the Himalayas, or this daisy.

I like this daisy. it is one of the many, many daisies found on the patch of grass outside my boyfriend’s flat in Feltham. I’ve been enjoying them for weeks, but then – much to my dismay – someone came by and mowed them all down, scattering destroyed flowers and crushed petals all over the place. I was kind of upset. It had been lovely, watching them grow and spread and open and close, seeing their little flowerheads nodding in the low breeze. There were buttercups, too, and the whole thing was all the colours that late spring and early summer is supposed to be.

A few days later, though, they were back. For such tiny and delicate-looking little flowers, daisies are remarkably hardy things. I nearly got a bit allegorical about them for a moment, there.

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