I’m tempted to quote Oscar Wilde on the subject of temptation. Unlike a genius and literary superstar, I can resist – which is probably why I drive a bus. But I am sure that many of my own romantic fiction readers here in the UK will know that it is National Chocolate week. Why do we need it? Every week is chocolate week, even if you don’t succumb to a solitary Malteser. Look – all I’ve had this week is a packet of Turkish Delight – and that was an ASDA own brand budget deal so it can’t really be counted can it? I have put up a struggle in the face of immense aggression from the chocolatiers of this world. Hotel Chocolat sent me an invitation to join their Chocolate Tasting Club. Their brochure invites me to “reach my bliss point”. Do they think that such blatant erotically charged lustful hedonism would move me? Too bloody right it would! Most junk mail goes straight in the bin. I’m not quite ready to take that final step, but I will be once I’ve signed up.
Whilst in ASDA buying my budget Turkish Delight (I think it’s a love it or hate it), I bought some sun flowers. At home in Charente Maritime they are a backdrop to summer, an orgy of careless beauty grown as a crop. You know I think that the context in which we see things is more important than the thing itself. A huge field of blooms is like a mob, an army or a nameless crowd. A few individuals in a vase are a work of art and a study of joy. How would life be if we saw the mass proletariat as precious and beautiful? How would it be if the poor and all the trampled dead of war could live an hour on canvas or in a vase or in the heart of the oppressors? We would know something then of our purpose – which is to love, to forgive and to share our chocolates. You thought I’d got God didn’t you?
Emma thinx: The crop is our reality. Each bloom is our truth.
In the early days of film, in the UK, there were all these films shot of people coming out of factories at the end of a shift, or coming out of the football gate. The idea was that because you could see their faces on the film, they'd pay a few pennies to see themselves. The result, though, when you see a few of those reels spliced together, is a loving portrait of a lost working class – a precious proletariat; not a faceless mob, but a moving picture of many faces.
This is much like walking towards a field of sunflowers. From afar it's just another anonymous crop, but when you're too close to see the serried lines, each flower becomes a face, and no two are quite alike.