Letter From The Other Side. by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.

Dear Del,
This week we thought it was time we took Aunt Alice and Uncle Rodger out.
During the past few cold weeks they had spent far too much time slow roasting themselves in their small rooms. Many people in the community have the flu so we thought a good dose of fresh air was needed to put come colour in their faces.
They have been engrossed in the football of course and the inevitable football pools. Also, the daily news of dreadful cricket scores announced by optimistic British sports reporters sensing a coming miracle during summer as English cricket rises from the ashes of decades of obscurity, have not helped Uncle Rodger’s outlook these past few weeks.
We decided a brisk walk through the local Botanic gardens was suitable as the two old people enjoy the open space and love the large trees.
The day we went was clear and the gale from Antarctica was moderately bearable.
As you know it would have swept little Aunt Alice away and over the hills last week.
With the exception of their pink noses, they had barely an inch of skin showing from beneath the knitted hats and yards of scarves knotted around their necks.
Uncle Rodger wore a thick tweed jacket and Aunt Alice was a vision in mauve mohair.
I wore a boucle jacket William says makes me look as if I have developed a bad case of mould. Teddy rugged himself into his trusty ‘Driza-bone’ coat.

As we drove to the gardens with Uncle Rodger as usual supplying unhelpful directions to Teddy, he complained there weren’t any roses for him to pick from the village gardens at present.
Ever since they took up residence at the retirement village he seems to have formed the idea the rose gardens were for his personal use. He takes his secateurs out to them once or twice a week to pick bunches of flowers to give to Aunt Alice and various other lady friends. It never seems to occur to him that the gardens were planted for the enjoyment of the dozens of other residents and not just for his personal pleasure and those of his friends.
We walked slowly along the pathways because Uncle Rodger needed his walking frame and Aunt Alice used her precious stick purchased in Scotland decades ago.
She admired various plants, remembered having them in her garden and wished she still had a few. Especially the lovely red and purple perennial sages the honey eaters were hanging upside down in as they enjoyed the nectar. The lorikeets flitted about in some of the wattles and a couple of black cockatoos kept up a constant conversation in a Bunya pine. The kookaburras were very noisy and Aunt Alice said it meant there would be more rain. They may be right. They probably know as much about it as the weather forecasters who that seem to just throw darts at the map some weeks.

Uncle Rodger spied some late and rather tattered roses still clinging to the shrubs and before we could prevent him, he whipped out his secateurs he must have had secreted in his pocket and cut the few stoic blooms which had survived the recent gales but now succumbed to his cutters. Carefully he placed them in the basket of his walking frame.

Teddy and I looked around to see another couple had witnessed Uncle Rodger’s actions and were glaring at us. Fortunately there were no gardeners were about to see what he had done.

After a little while, we entered the small tea rooms which shelter beneath a giant Morton Bay Fig tree. The ladies who make the delicious cakes and snacks are all volunteers and as I have been there many times with the garden group I belong to, I knew they would turn a blind eye to Uncle Rodger’s misdeeds.
The tea was fragrant and very warming and the old people each ate two scones with lashings of jam and cream on them. It took me a little while to make Aunty Alice aware she was sporting a thick white moustache of cream.
I felt with the one small exception, the morning had gone very well.

Just as we were leaving the kiosk one of the gardeners came in to order his lunch and spied Uncle Rodger’s bouquet gradually wilting in the warmth of the indoor heating.
He came over and quietly said, ‘You know Sir it isn’t allowed for visitors to pick the flowers here, they are for everyone to enjoy.’
Uncle Rodger was a little taken aback at being admonished but argued no one would miss a few roses.
The young man caught my eye and smiled ‘No perhaps not.’ He nodded.
Aunt Alice of course had been listening. ‘He should really know better shouldn’t he?’ She dimpled up at the young gardener and her little eyes flashed behind the thick glass of her spectacles. She opened her coat. ‘You should really only take cuttings like I have which just trim the bushes a little and no one can see where they came from, shouldn’t you?’ She smiled innocently at us all again as she produced a bunch of the unmistakable red Pineapple Sage and various other small pickings from unspecified plants.
The young man, who had tried to be so kind and understanding, was lost for words.
The ladies behind their cake display, smiled.

Teddy and I left a large tip in the tin on the counter for the ‘The Friends Of The Gardens Fund’ and took the old people home.As usual, the Kookaburra's laughed as we left. Their timing impeccable as always.
I think we have all been in similar predicaments haven’t we Del?
Your blooming ‘Flower child friend’
Cynthia