On the whole I dislike decay. My inner perfectionist denies me the pleasure of anything less than pristine, fresh or new. I wish I could be more accepting of senescence, but perhaps this exposes my own fear of growing old. The moment a vase of flowers passes its best I have to be rid of it, so I surprised myself today by gravitating towards a clutch of tiny rambling roses growing along our balcony at Hotel Endsleigh. Whether palest pink, sullied white or sepia, the rose’s blooms are divinely romantic.