The woman with the watering can was pouring its contents onto the flower bed.
“A flower bed?” asked Jess with a raised eyebrow. “She took a watering can into the park with her? Who does that?”
“No, this was on the street. Near Marchmont Street in Bloomsbury,” said Carla. “There was a row of trees and she was watering the flowers that were growing underneath.”
“What, through that sort of concrete grating where the trunk goes into the pavement?”
“Yes. Yeah, ok, so it wasn’t not exactly a flower bed, but that’s sweet, right? Sort of civic.”
Jess had almost finished buttering her toast, and was very obviously about the plunge the buttery knife into the jam Carly had bought this morning.
“What sort of flowers were they?” asked Jess, and the top popped as she twisted open the jar.
“I don’t know, those long ones with kind of bell shaped flowers. Quite pretty,” said Carly, looking at the flat, shiny surface of the untouched conserve.
“Hollyhocks? Those are technically weeds,” said Jess.
Then she plunged the defiled knife into the virgin jam, leaving deposits of butter behind.
“Bitch,” thought Carly.
‘Why are we talking about this?” asked Jess.