Gladiolus flower on the upper arm

The gladioli came in on the back of the Hollis lorry, wrapped in wet sacking, and I had to tell Mr Abbott they'd been cut two days too early. He didn't care. He wanted them standing in the bucket by the Waltzer before the first gate opened, so I stood them there, nine stems of them, pink and salmon, the buds still shut tight at the top like fists waiting to be asked a question.

You'll laugh, but I think the sword lily is the only flower that travels well. Roses go limp in a day and carnations smell of diesel. The gladiolus just keeps on opening, one bloom at a time from the bottom up, so the stall looks different every morning. I've been counting them down the stems like a clock.

Last night a boy came up to the stall, perhaps twelve, with a pocket full of coconut-shy pennies and no idea what to spend them on. He asked which one would last longest. I told him to pick the one with the most buds, because that was the one still deciding. He chose it and carried it off held straight out in front of him like a sword, all the way past the dodgems.

Mr Abbott says we pull out Thursday for Maidstone. I've wrapped the spare stems in newspaper for you. Keep the tallest one on the sill, and mind the tip, it's sharper than it looks.

Love, Dot