Titanarum

Did you see Prof Regan on BBC 2 the other day? She’s the one who tests the science behind claims for probiotic youghurt, beauty creams and now organic produce. And guess what? Organic produce cannot claim to have the upper hand neither with taste nor healthiness. I’m with that woman even though her red lipstick, pointed shoes with kitten heals and smug middleclass assertiveness do get me down. I wish no ill on organic farmers. Those who buy their stuff (and I do too if it is reasonably priced) do so not to become healthier or make better tasting food but to show sympathy for a gentler and less mechanical way of farming. I’m particularly interested in supporting animal husbandry that shows kindness and respect towards animals. But again the organic, free range lobby often come across as a religious sect. I buy free range chicken now because that does taste better (as the animals are allowed on average twice the life span and use of muscles and hence flavour) and because I would rather have less meat and pay more if that means a better quality of life for the animals. But whether they are reared organically or not, I couldn’t care less.

The freesias will have to go. I planted them, with all the goodness of my heart, just after Xmas. I was in the grips of a dark, leafless and wintry gloom and needed to cheer myself up with some hope. And what is growing stuff if not hope? Yes, it was early. Three months early according to the instructions. But hey, what’s the point of instructions if not to ignore them? But I shouldn’t have. I was so wrong. As mentioned in an earlier post, they’ve been looking a bit too lanky lately. Not elegant freesia lanky but spotted teenager lanky. And brown spots are now showing on every single bulb. So ugly are they becoming I’ve had to hide them behind a curtain. But let’s face out of sight isn’t out of mind. The misshaped growths are a constant reminder of my fallibility and I cannot bear it much longer.I would have loved to show you a photo of the bulbs complete with flowers set. I would have loved to gloat. But in this instance I’ve accepted that admitting defeat is my only option. So to all you manufacturers of freesia bulbs out there: I hope you’re happy now.

Spring is not here. Why do we have to endure this waiting game? This ‘one minute it’s mild and sunny the next ice has made all surfaces silvery’ game? Nature is playing with our emotions and I don’t like it. We need to find a way of staying in control. Think about it. Every year millions of buds perish as a result of these games. No sooner has the sun made the sap rise than the frost rears its sometimes pretty head and snaps off the new growth. I’m sick of it. In this climate you can’t depend on anything. I hear people say how much they enjoy the changing seasons. Pah! All they enjoy is when the rain and cold stop and one can venture outside without a raincoat or thermal underwear. They may say they enjoy getting their faces wet or their cheeks bitten by an icy wind but they are deluded. And if they aren’t then something’s wrong with them. I am yearning for a time when we can create the climates we want. I want to be in a bubble full of cherry trees and strawberries and Charantais melons. And in my bubble there’ll be no slugs or aphids or fruit eating birds. Only summer’s finest weather. 

A good friend M needs her lawn trimmed. I’ve been helping her out on and off for the past five years. As she loves her garden but has too many health problems to keep it tending her small patch is a pleasure for me. Apart from the lawn I will be checking out the passionflower. It took ill last year and having tried various remedies I expect we will have to start afresh. They self seed easily and we have at least 10 contenders at knee height. I will also be helping her decide on a fitting tribute to her cat Shelley, who passed away last autumn. The last time I saw her she had just come back from the vet and was still not feeding very well. But she ventured into the garden, found  a sunny spot, and with her eyes closed and her whiskers whirring, she picked up scents and movements in the air. She was a gentle, loving cat, timid with people she didn’t know very well, including me. Her ginger fur hung loosely from her body as she had lost a lot of weight but she was at peace and looked contented and happy. M will be choosing a shrub or a plant in her memory and I will be planting and tending it. I look forward to that.

Flowers are so sexual. That must be the connection between romance and flowers in Western cultures. But let’s face it flowers don’t care about our love lives. All a flower is concerned with is to get the plant laid. And like us animals they come in all shapes, colours and sizes. I love flowers. Most of them, anyway. They only ones I don’t like are sun yellow and brown orange. As for blue flowers, they make me go weak at the knees. The one I’ve posted belongs to a cactus. I can’t tell you what kind of cactus as I’m too lazy to do any research. (Well, at least I’m honest, what with it being Monday morning and all). But back to the sex. The sex organs of flowers are far more complex than a woman’s fanny and a man’s willy. I did try to understand it all but, frankly, I don’t. There’s an ovary (yes, we know that one), a style and a stigma. Eh? And as for the male organs we are talking stamen, anther and filament. I know. Me too. Sometimes knowledge is not useful at all. But still, we can watch while they go about their business (with a little help from a willing bee).

The starlings have gathered in the leafless tree at the back of our block. I hate them. Noisy, greedy gangs of flying pests. But they are a protected species so I must curb my instincts to poison the lot of them. It took me months to get the hole under the eaves blocked last year. Had I not seen to that they would have been in by now, building nests and extensions and what not. Been wondering about offspring in general. What are they for? Is there a way to signal that the house is full? Are we humans going to start slowing down our breeding? And if yes, when? And can we set targets for each species based upon an idealised ecological system? 500000000000000000000000000000000 gazillions ants and 100.000 polar bears, say? And can we decide that some species, on reflection, need not be? I’m thinking of slugs here. But such thoughts could take us down the slippery slope of cruel arrogance. A return to eugenics at worst, or Maoesque population control at second worst. But I’m gonna risk it. If slugs were no more I wouldn’t grieve. As for starlings I’ll just be a NUME (not under my eaves).

What is a bouquet? A small cluster or arrangements of flowers says the dictionary. Or a pleasingly sweet olfactory property. Well, yesterday I picked up what was once a bouquet. 12 long stemmed red roses and one single pink rose still in its plastic sheet, had been thrown out of a window round the corner. Scattered all over the pavement I reckon the act was the fall out from a romantic Valentines gesture. A woman had said: ‘Don’t think these can make up for the little shit you really are. Don’t think you can buy me with flowers. Expensive rings maybe, but a dozen roses from ASDA (this year they could be had for £4.99), forget it.’ I picked the sad things up and now, cut short and in fresh water, they are doing me proud. No pleasingly sweet olfactory properties, though, but hey. I’m easy with bouquets, me. If a dandelion flower wasn’t dark yellow and didn’t flop the minute you pick it, I’d be arranging them in little bouquets all the time. I don’t mind plastic either. In fact I’m rather taken with these balloon flowers. 10 out of 10 for effort and thinking outside the box.

Can you believe it? 3 weeks have passed and not a word from me? Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say? Not in my case. Winter in the UK is rubbish for people who like to grow things. And my heart doesn’t grow anymore. Neither fonder, sillier, or sorrier. I’m a middle aged disaffected blogger not some poet dishing out metaphors for this that and the other. Like other gardeners I call a spade exactly that. And no more. Unless it turns out to be a crap spade. In that case I don’t, as you can see, abstain from the odd adjective. But as for posting my thoughts on growing this time of the year…. Well, I have tried. I had a hyacinth in the window sill, didn’t I? And what a disappointment that turned out to be. A compacted little thing that had a hint of scent for few days before turning brown. And as for the freesias, I’d rather not go there. Still, now I’ve started I might as well. I went against thousands of botanists and specialist growers and planted my little bulbs two months early. Then I placed them exactly where they wouldn’t thrive this time of year: in a south facing window with constant heat wafting from a radiator below. And my giving the little buggers too much heat for the amount of light we have available this time of year has resulted in weak growth and brown spots on the leaves. So there. I was wrong. Get over it.

Finally dragged myself down to the plot. Fearing the worst the damage was bearable. One of my three compost bins must have flown off and found a new home. Easy come easy go. You may recall the composting course I wrote about back in the autumn. The local council, in their effort to make everybody recycle, offered a free bin to everybody attending this course. I got mine through attending the course and then blagged myself another one because it was spare and a bit wonky. Well, it is the wonky one that has flown the nest. I clearly didn’t need it because if I did it would have been filled with wilted cabbage leaves and the like to keep it in place. Other than losing a bin the plot was not bad. I picked some flat leaved parsley and noticed that the cabbages I planted last year could probably be grown on to yield this summer. And the sprouting broccoli has set little heads and will be pickable in a few weeks. The blueberry bushes also looked promising. Hardly any trimming seems to be needed and lots of buds set on their red stalks. So all in all a reasonably trauma free visit.