It's too late. All you're going to see is patches of flowers, not big fields or massive displays.

They look like big fuzzy patches to the unassisted eye.

Chris Ofili's suave, stippled, visually tricked-out paintings of the nineties, with their allover fields of shimmering dots and clumps of dung, are like cave paintings of modern life. They crackle with optical cockiness, love, and massive amounts of painterly mojo.

Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.

There's no such thing as too late. That's why they invented death

Cook until they're popped but not yet big and fluffy.