Daffodils

Fantasy Bob is of an age that it was considered part of his education in primary school to learn by heart  William Wordsworth's The Daffodils.  He got no traction on his suggestion that learning the art of the forward defence would serve him better on his journey through life.  But from time to time the poem comes into his mind, word perfect after all these years.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Mrs FB likes nothing better than a few bunches of daffodils fluttering and dancing around the house.  She is cheered by a bright flash of yellow in every room.  She and Wordsworth would have got on like a house on fire.  

Fantasy Bob has therefore been conscientiously feeding her habit in recent weeks bringing hosts of golden daffodils home with every trip out.  He was therefore disturbed to see reports of difficulties in harvesting the daffodil crops because of the Brexit induced shortage of labour.  Millions of blooms may be tossing their heads only to be left to rot in the fields.  Not quite the sprightly dance the poet had in mind. 

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

FB is suddenly anxious.  It would be bad news for him if a shortage of supply caused him difficulty meeting Mrs FB's needs.  For there is a delicate balance of emotions in the household at this time of year.  As the winter recedes and the evenings lengthen, FB's thoughts begin to turn to the coming cricket season.   

It is not always clear that Mrs FB shares FB's keen anticipation.  She looks up briefly from her careful arrangement of FB's most recent offering.

'You're not thinking of playing again are you?   Didn't you say your ankle was crocked....or was it your shoulder....or your elbow....or your back.'

FB was on the point of suggesting that her apparent inability to remember precisely the location of his injuries suggested a lack of due attention to his problems on her part.  But discretion overtook him.  He bit his tongue.  Another injury, but not one that would affect significantly his bowling action.

Mrs FB returned her concentration to sorting the blooms.  She stood back to admire the display.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

He took a risk and attempted a response.

'Yes, but maybe I can play round them.'

Mrs FB's gaze turned slowly from daffodil to husband, evidently her less preferred view.

'The only way you could do that is by standing stock still.'

FB didn't acknowledge that she had neatly summarised his approach to fielding.  He had yet to confess to his better half that for a number of years his contribution to the team was largely decorative.  It was a source of disappointment that his claims to have innovated the specialist role of non-bowling non-batting barely-fielding tosser (in the sense of one who tosses prior to a match, in case any readers were pursuing other interpretations) have yet to be acknowledged by Wisden.

The lockdown has meant that FB has been spared the annual cruelty of indoor nets.  But as the pandemic recedes the powers-that-be are daily more confident that serious cricketing activity can begin soon.  It is time for FB to look his kit out.  Even in the specialist role on which FB now prides himself a prodigious spread of kit is essential.

It has been a source of amazement to FB for many years that no matter where in the house he neatly stacks his bag, she successfully seeks it out for the sole purpose of tripping over it.  It is a skill not given to everyone.

'Well, if you must,' she said. 'But Don't Leave Your Kit All Over The Place As You Always Do.'  She spoke audible capitals, leaving a pause between each word to ensure that FB could understand the full meaning of each word.

He had no choice but to go for the jugular.

'The daffs look nice.'

Having thus sweetened her, he promises to do better this year.  She sighs.  She has heard similar promises before.  She sighs again and resumes her flower arranging, perhaps trimming the stems with a more vigour than before.

It is at times like this that a conciliatory bunch of daffodils can ease the emotional tension.   The threat to security of supply is therefore serious.  It risks disturbing the smooth preparation that FB makes for the start of the season.

Had this been acknowledged by those in vacant or pensive mood at an earlier stage in the Brexit debate the result might well have been different.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.