It was a day typical of this year’s early summer. Raining. Cold. Miserable. I was about to crack and put the heating on when my sister arrived, carrying peonies. Over the coming hours, the rain rained harder, the cold got colder, and the peonies opened, becoming frothy balls of the palest powdery pink, touched by gold at the centre. Their unfurling seemed like an act of unbridled generosity.
The arrival of peonies is a wonderful thing. They sit in the supermarkets, clustered near the checkouts; their fat, rounded buds, hinting pinkly of what is to come when you take them home, introduce them to water and prepare to be surprised. Tuesday at Sainsbury’s might deliver the massive Barbara Cartland boudoir version, while Wednesday at Tesco’s brings a paler, more feathery, young Oscar Wilde, reclining on the chaise longue.
White, with the slightest pink blush, it’s a tribute to the favoured concubine of the Tang Dynasty Emperor Xuanzong
And you can’t be sure whether the peonies are going to be whoppers, practically the size of hats, or more modest flushed meringues, going for delicacy over razzmatazz.
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