Josephine's last fling

No, I haven't lost my marbles. The rose is the last of this years flowering of Josephine Bruce, the wonderfully scented old rose that alone survives of the former rose-bed outside the kitchen window. I thought we'd enjoy it more indoors than if I left it only to peer at it through the condensation of the November glass. It strikes me on reflection (joke?) that you can readily see the midden the room is in at the time of taking this; my excuse is that I've been out since breakfast.

There are still some random blossoms on the straggling white bush at the gate, but there I shall leave them. They never do well indoors anyway ...