Today I had a private lesson with one of my mature students, a genteel and refined lady in her sixties who loves flowers and studies botany as a hobby (she’s also so rich that she has an actual elevator in her three-storey home, but that’s not relevant here). I have to admit that I like her mostly because she pays so well, but also because she’s kind and sweet, serves wonderful tea and sweets, and is so elegant that she never raises her voice above a well-modulated murmur.
So, today we were talking about flowers as usual, and she was trying to tell me about her favourite flower, but couldn’t for the life of her remember the name, either in English or in Japanese. Unfortunately, although I knew what she was talking about, neither could I. It was one of those horrid “I know it … it’s on the tip of my tongue … damn, lost it!” moments that you just know are going to keep you awake that night (and that seem to be happening to me more and more all the time these days).
Anyway, we soon changed the topic and became absorbed in talking about something else.
I was just taking a sip of her excellent Earl Grey when suddenly she slapped the glass table nearly hard enough to shatter it, and screeched at the top of her lungs “LILAC!”
Damn near gave me a fricking heart attack. Not to mention that I spewed tea all over the place.