Wild Strawberries

 Not another nod to Nordic cinema but the real thing. Yesterday morning I had my annual eye-test and needed a new set of lenses which, I'm happy to say, my optician can fit into my previous frames. They are tortoise-shell and give, I fondly hope, the effect of a 1950s Ivy League academic crossing Harvard Yard. At the end of the walk back to my flat through distinctly humid conditions, hirpling rather than walking, relying more than usual on my stick, I passed my local supermarket. It is noted for the worst 'landscaping' of any that I've seen. You'd look at it for a long time before the names of Le Notre or Gertrude Jekyll came to your mind. Among the milk thistles and fireweed, however, there is a clump of wild strawberries and I pick and eat one every time I pass. Small, sharp and with a hint of sweetness, it brought a spot of delight at the end of a long, sticky stumble from the bus-stop.