Of daffodils

It's Wordsworth time of year — daffodil season. 
'Hosts' of the 'jocund' things are 'fluttering and dancing' in parks and public spaces all over London. 

Bucketsful of rigid buds, not-yet-golden, bundled into £1 and £2 bunches wait patiently in Tescos, Sainsbury's and M&S, promising to fill 'my heart with pleasure' and brighten dull corners of our mostly-grey apartment.
The other morning as I set out across the park that borders our block, I was, as usual, running a little late and feeling anxious about whether the damn bus would be, as usual, running a little early. So I wasn't paying much attention to anything. But I did notice that a young woman pushing a stroller was coming the other way, towards me from the roadway. She was looking at her phone. And dragging on a cigarette. 
I moved to other side of the path.

As I did, the little person burst out of the push-chair. Squealing in excitement, the toddler rushed into the rows of daffodils, running her hands along their heads as she went, her laughter floating up through the naked Birch branches. The flowers bobbed and nodded.

I laughed.
"Get back 'ere. Stop! Why've you gotta be so bloody naughty?"
My smile melted. 
My feet moved me on a little faster.

That afternoon at the Old Royal Naval College, Karen and I were leaving at the same time. John is knowledgeable, genial, helpful ... one of very few who have bothered to engage me in conversation. And I know he loves to garden. So as we passed a bank of daffodils, I mentioned how at this time last year they had struggled to keep their heads above the snow, and of the many varieties I had noticed this season — from compact minis to knee-high trumpeters, from orange centred brights to near-translucent flat-faced beauties. 
And of how they make me happy.

 
"Not those wretched doubles," he all but spat. "I can't abide those show-off doubles. Can't stand double roses either. Awful frilly things."

I had no response.

Two scoops of ice-cream in a waffle cone, two shots of gin in a long glass of cold tonic, the top deck of a big red bus — I like doubles. 
Extra rows of petals are just fine by me.
Maybe that's my problem. 
Too much is never enough.
And if I was a toddler, I'm pretty sure I'd run through the daffodils too. 

How can people be grumpy around daffodils?
Carnations maybe.
But not daffodils.
Am I right?