Violet Speedwell and the plant of destiny

 I didn’t write my blog yesterday because I second guessed myself. I had doubts. I was going to write an advert for the government. It would have gone something like this:

MISSING

Wanted in connection with a rampaging virus.

Person with a Brazilian. If you had a test and didn’t fill in the form please call the hotline, so we can all avoid a close shave.

I didn’t write it yesterday because I thought I was being silly but then the government held a briefing that said that almost word for word. It was also filled with some good news and for the first time Penfold looked quite positive. He seemed to be suggesting that the vaccination programme was looking to be so successful even Hat Mancock couldn’t fuck it up now.

“What has this got to do with Violet Speedwell?” you ask.

Absolutely nothing. I just had to get it out of my head first.

Violet Speedwell is a character in Tracy Chevalier’s novel, A Single Thread. It’s about the needlepoint cushions in Winchester Cathedral and is an absolutely beautiful book, if you are looking for a World Book Day suggestion. Since I read the book, I’ve had a desire to have a go at embroidery. Good books do that. They make you want to try the things the author has written about so passionately. They also allow you to travel, which is very useful in these ‘stay at home’ times. 

Now that the Long Suffering Husband has got to the screw sorting stage of lockdown I thought I might need something to entertain me. I’ve never embroidered before. My mum liked it and therefore I decided that it would be something I wouldn’t be any good at. It’s funny how we do that; how we decide by comparing ourselves to others without even trying. 

I began, half heartedly, thinking about wild flowers as I stitched. Then I looked at Twitter and someone I know had posted a picture of a wild flower, for identification. I love how you can do that. Twitter has become the place I can go to say, “What’s that?” “Why?” and “How does that work?” It was a small blue flower that I know as birds eye. 

They looked like some of the little flowers on my embroidery kit. 

Other, wiser people than me replied with their proper name. They were Speedwells. Violet Speedwells. 

The yoga I did was all about destiny and the collective worship story was about three trees accepting their fate. (I will probably never come to terms with Christian delight at the torture of a young man but I got the metaphor).

So, if you want me. I’ll be sewing. Who am I to ignore my destiny?