Over the last three or four years, my wardrobe has steadily become more green. Not, I’m ashamed to say, in an eco-friendly way (though the fact that I literally never throw anything away, thus helping with the landfill situation, must earn me some environmentalista points), but in a pigmentally verdant way. (Is pigmentally a word? It is now, and does not refer to the porcine psyche.)

I sort of assumed this was because I had subliminally absorbed whatever insidious trend message fashion had been feeding me (certainly envy is a regular sentiment while writing about luxury goods and beautiful models). Having returned to the UK for good after more than four years in the Arabian Gulf, however, and staying, moreover, in the pretty city of Lichfield at a particularly fecund moment of alternating rain and sunshine, I now believe that it has, in fact, been the result of chronic chlorophyll deficiency. Sand saturation. Sun fatigue.

This occurred to me while shelling some peas (imagine that: shelling peas!) before a Sunday roast (Welsh lamb, how I love thee). Here are the very pea pods, looking particularly vibrant against their cobalt-blue plastic container. I plan to come up with some marvellous visual response to this, if I can, in the words of Arthur Russell, get around to it. In the meantime, as a friend said to me when I made my return: enjoy the chlorophyll.


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