A matter of degrees

THERE’S A TIBOUCHINA TREE on the street that leads from my son’s school to the railway station. I pass it once or twice a week, the brilliant flare of its colour pressing hard against my eyes when it’s in bloom. Tibouchina lepidota: its flowers blaze with one of the least subtle purples in the world.

There was a tibouchina tree at my grandparents’ house in Thirroul on the NSW south coast; it grew at the bottom of their front stairs. I can’t remember now if those stairs were wooden or if they were concrete.

What I can remember is the colour of the flowers on that tree; my grandmother would pluck two petals and stick one on each lens of her glasses, transforming her vision, and