Colonial Rose

It's amazing, how a glance at an image an take you back down a road you haven't traveled in years. 

The memories invoked, so real you can actually smell the talcum powdered scent of rose and feel the velvety coolness of the red-black petals between your five year old fingertips. 

This could have been the rose that was growing in the garden of any British colonial homestead. A house nestled on an acreage of land in the tranquil basin of a valley guarded by a cross on a kopje. 

A wrap around porch, brick red concrete floor polished so brightly it shone like a mirror. 

Walk into the kitchen and step onto a black and white checkerboard of polished perfection. A chessboard of rules and routine, loyalty and loneliness. 

A cobblestone courtyard swept clean by a khaki clad servant. His entire life spent at the servitude of someone else's comfort. 

Each day mapped out by routine and rules. Days ruled by the rising and setting and relentless thrum of a butter yellow sun. 

Ebony dining table, waxy smooth and brightly reflective. 

Empty chairs expectantly awaiting the appearance of the players in the theatre of expatriate proprietary. 

Starched white linens, stiffly folded like origami work of art. 

The reflective gleam of a sterling silver teaset as bright as a spotless mirror on the spotless Welsh dresser, awaiting a tea party of 

A bone handled knife, fork and spoon laid precision awaiting the next three course meal. 

A sterling silver bell strategically placed at the right hand of the lady of the house. 

Its tinkling timbre a signal that the next course of the meal was required, some more chilled and curled butter, a top up of ruby red wine or water for the children. 

Children that should only ever be seen and not heard. Cleaned and preened and on their best behavior. 

Drinks trolley in the corner, awaiting the signal of the 

Gin and tonic, decanter meeting the tinkling cubes of ice. Lemon slice awaiting the union of gin meeting tonic. 

Snatches of memories and hushed voices. 

Don't say what you really mean. Don't show how you really feel. 

Appearances are meant to be kept up.