I have been all about jonquils for the last little while. They have steadily edged Mayflower out of the ‘favourite flower’ AND ‘favourite historic boat’ race, and if this was a baseball metaphor: they are bringing it HOME.

Let me go back to the beginning. One day I walked out my front door to notice that pretty much OVERNIGHT, a whole new joyful crop of cold-weather narcissus had sprung up in our front garden. They were jolly and gay and bright, but you know what else? They. Smelt. Fricking. Amazing.


Jonquils smell like happiness. A big slug of happiness, seasoned with a sprig of self-confidence and oiled with a greasy cloth of ‘YELLOW!’. I am surrounded by them right now – I have two separate vases of jonquils in my study – and the smell just makes everything better. It makes it okay that I am writing a play with character names like ‘Bikini’ and ‘Ochre’. It makes it ok that it’s so cold in this room that even my nose is cold. They smell beautiful and they look like little snub-nosed golden pig faces, and they’re a much subtler and more modest version of the daffodil and yknow what, I THINK YOU GEDDIT.

It’s also really fun to purse your lips in a big ‘O’ with hands out around your face like a mane, and impersonate them:

Thanks Edmund.

So if you’re part of the inner circle of Jess’n’friends, feel free to come by for a big gusty nosing of our garden. Otherwise get yourself to your nearest florist or IGA because seriously they are pretty cheap and THEY MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING.

They also trump this bitch, despite the fact that she’s stood by me all year: