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her fantasy.

SEVEN
    'Everyone's yellow,' said Morag.
    'We're in Chinatown,' Kerry told her.
    They were taking their daily walk. While in Chinatown Kerry was on the look-out for a flower of the Ginka
    Biloba, a Chinese tree.
    'How did the flower from a Chinese tree end up in the ancient Celtic flower alphabet?' Morag enquired.
    Kerry did not know. She supposed that the Celts were well travelled.
    'Or else it used to grow in other places. Anyway, it is one of the rarities that makes my flower alphabet difficult to collect.'
    Morag scanned the horizon for Ginka Bilobas. She had supposed, on first hearing of the project, that a flower alphabet meant one flower beginning with A, another with B, another with C and so on, but apparently it was more complicated than that. The flowers required corresponded to ancient Celtic symbols rather than modern English letters, and not only did they have to be the right species, but the right colour as well.
    No Ginka Bilobas being in sight, Morag studied the people.
    'What a place this New York is. Black people, brown people, white people, yellow people and people sort of in between. I love it.'
    'So do I,' said Kerry. 'But sometimes the people fight.'
    'Why?'
    'Because they are different colours.'
    Morag had a good laugh.
    'Humans are so dumb. If fairies were all different colours, they wouldn't fight about it.'
    Today Kerry had woken up cheerful, and even dealing with her colostomy bag had not depressed her. Morag knew
    that it would later, however, and was still grappling with the problem of what to do about it. Being a fairy she had some magical healing powers, but these did not extend to complicated surgical matters.
    A small brooch in the form of an eight-sided mirror caught Kerry's eye and she walked into the shop to look at it.
    It was an unusual shop, a second-hand place full of clothes and jewellery, with a few books and cards on the
    counter. Behind the counter were some old instruments. Morag examined them while Kerry asked the Chinese
    owner about the brooch. It was not for sale.
    'Why not?' said Morag, outside.
    Kerry shrugged.
    'I don't know. He just said it wasn't for sale.'
    They carried on along the street and Kerry took the brooch from her pocket.
    'You are an excellent shoplifter,' said Morag, admiringly. 'I didn't notice a thing.'
    Morag spotted some lobsters in a large tank at the front of a restaurant.
    'Why are those lobsters living in that shop?' she asked.
    'They stay in that tank till a customer wants to eat them. Then they get cooked.'
    'What?!'
    Morag was appalled. Back in Scotland, while wandering round the east coast, she had had many pleasant
    conversations with lobsters. She had no idea that people ate them. When they went home later for Kerry to eat and take part of the daily dosage of steroids that controlled her Crohn's disease, Morag felt rather depressed about it.
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    She unwrapped her violin from its green cloth and placed it gently under her chin.
    'That is a lovely tune,' said Kerry.
    'Thank you. It is a well-known Scottish lament. Although to tell you the truth I am a little bored with this sort of thing. If Heather hadn't been such an ignorant little besom and got us thrown out of Scotland in disgrace, our radical Celtic thrash band would have been rousing the nation at this very moment.'
    The sight and sound of Morag gloomily toying with a mournful lament made Kerry sad as well and by the time
    twilight came they both agreed that the only thing to do was go to bed depressed with the phone muffled by a
    pillow.
    Kerry said goodnight to her flowers, kissed the fabulous Welsh poppy, and lay down to sleep.
    Downstairs in the theatre across the road Cal was auditioning young actresses for the part of Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream.
    Heather looked on with some annoyance.
    'None