On beauty

This incredibly peripatetic lifestyle I have recently had thrust upon me, while requiring me to set off at silly hours of the morning and postpone my morning runs, has an upside. I get to see new parts of the town and country. Today I discovered the joys of the A3, and Waterlooville, which is close to Portsmouth. The two hour drive from London treated me to the unbridled yellow of the rape fields, to ancient trees and green hills like reclining women. It made me realise, yet again, how necessary beauty is to my sanity. Without something beautiful to look at, a part of me shrivels. My mind is filled by my eyes. I have been known to spend my last tenner on a bunch of flowers. And England in Spring certainly delivers. Even eastern London, occasionally derided as a beauty-free wasteland, has its delights. At a sweet little primary school last week, while we had a moment between setting up for the show and the arrival of our lilliputian audience members, I sat on the steps of the hall beneath a cherry tree, in a blizzard of candy pink petals, and was perfectly and simply happy.