WEDNESDAY WORD(S)

I can't decide whether to say

Dostoevsky

or

Ping

.* * * * *
.

I wish I never needed to say 'Wednesday'. Horrible word! Tuesday is pretty good. Sunday is a bit weird. Monday is stodgy. Thursday is dull but dignified. Saturday sounds sunny - whether it is or not.

.

meme is distressing. I hate it. It hurts to say it. It hurts to think it. My fingers curl when I write it. Difficult to tackle it. Don't worry, those who have included me - it's not the activity or the challenge (though I would rise to it more easily if it had a different name) it's the word. My shoulders seize up while I think it. My chin and jaw have gone rigid. My skin tingles as if scalded.

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Victoria - I don't think I have synaesthesia. It's too inconsistant for that. It's a word here, a colour there. Mostly it's interesting. Rarely a horror like this. This is like pease pudding with salt beef for a school dinner.

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I think I'll call it a Dostoevsky instead. That way, I might cope.

.

VP has Dostoevskied me to ask if there's a word I use too much. I'm hoping passed sins can be counted because I used to say 'anyway' far too much. (I think it was 'anyway', anyway.) Anyway, I was handed back an essay once with all the 'anyways' (if that was the word) picked out by the tutor. I reformed. I took advice. I had got into bad ways. I took on new ones. I became a brilliant writer. (Of course!) I avoid 'anyway'.

.

* * * * *

Umbelliferous

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I've put this in as a bonus word.

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Be it ever so 'umble.

(Not that a dandelion is an umbelliferous plant  -  it's just that when I pressed the return key (meaning I'd like to start a new paragraph, please) my computer mistook my intention and published the post so I had to find a decoration quickly and bung it in.)

(Then the phone went.)

(Which is why you've got the ' 'umble' bit.)

A WEDNESDAY WORD AND A COUPLE OF LISTS

Aspidistra

.

(I have one in my garden. Until I had one in my garden I didn't know they could grow in gardens. I thought they were only happy in ugly pots on wooden tripods in dark corners and that they had to be dusted and polished.)

Kumquat. I've been thinking it all week, and now I have to say it, whether it's Wednesday or not.

KUMQUAT

I didn't know what a Kumquat is. Or what it does. Just that 'Kumquat' is a word worth saying.

KUMQUAT

Ah, that feels better.

An Unseasonal Spanish Broom Flower

Here's a list:-

LIST

1.) The Spanish Broom is flowering. (It's not meant to be.)

2.) There are Passion Flowers flowering in the Spanish Broom. (They aren't meant to be flowering either.)

3.) There are chicory flowers beside the hedgerows. (Every year they grow shorter.)

* * * * *

There's a lot of rubbish caught up in the plants at the front of my house.

Empty Drinks Cans

Empty Crisp Packets

Sweet Papers

It's half term. I can tell.

Clues

There are:-

Empty Drinks Cans
and Empty Crisp Packets
and Sweet Papers

mixed under the bamboos and a pruned tomato plant and ancient romanesques and the nettles and the sage and the nasturtiums (which are germinating and growing and flowering - all at the wrong time).

(Well, the nasturtiums are.) (Flowering at the wrong time.) (The nettles know better.)

* * * * *

I'm still ploughing through challenges. I've got to tell you things about myself. This puzzles me. I'm telling you things about myself all the time. For instance, I've just told you about the

Empty Drinks Cans
Empty Crisp Packets
and Sweet Papers

That they are still there instead of in the bin, that I'm writing about them instead of removing them - does that not say something? Does it not say something about the kind of place I live?

But, here are some other things.

MY CAREER

(Before I turned out to have epilepsy.)

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1.) I packed packets of crisps into bigger packets of crisps to be sold as multi-packs. (In a factory.) (I mean - I packed them in a factory. They were sold in shops.) - I was a crisp packer.

2.) I packed packets of peanuts into boxes and fixed packets of peanuts onto cards. (In a factory.) I was a nut packer.

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3.) I packed pickles into jars. (In a pickle factory.) I was a pickle packer.

4.) I piped cream into cakes in a factory bakery. I was a cake finisher.

It was while I was icing chocolate eclairs in the bakery (where I was a cake finisher) that I had my first fit. Think big. Think thousands and thousands of eclairs and trifles and loaves of bread, pies and crumpets and fork lift trucks. Nothing cosy here! I fell face down into a tray of them (chocolate eclairs) as it (the tray of them) rode down the conveyor belt. I drifted along for a bit, then fell backwards, the tray clattering down with me - cakes and cream and chocolate all over me, round me and under me - and more and more trays of eclairs came too because my head in a tray on the belt had caused a log jam and the line of trays compressed . . . then buckled . . . then fell. (Except we didn't call the trays 'trays', we called them units.) Elegance!

I was wearing a pink and white checked hat at the time, a white overall, a white plastic apron and a huge, clear, plastic bag tied round my waist for extra protection against grease. Not a fashion statement. It was simply what cake finishers wore.

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(Pickle packers wore gum-boots and thick rubber aprons.) (Nut packers wore overalls they brought from home.)

I haven't finished planting bulbs because I forgot I have more to plant. They are in a mixing bowl on the kitchen floor. Luckily the cat with a tummy upset hasn't found them. It's already done for our complete harvest of shallots which were also on the kitchen floor (in a basket). It (the cat) thought the basket was a convenient place to . . . well, never mind.

KUMQUAT!

STARTING ON MEMES

Right, I've got to do something about answering challenges. When I began this blog, I said I'd respond more readily to such things but it doesn't come easily!

However, one of the nice things they offer is a chance to recommend blogs which people might not come across otherwise. So, that's what I'll do.

Four challenges add up to forty blog recommendations (near enough). You don't want that. Surely you don't!

I also think most people who read this blog already know about each other. And most have gardening blogs too. So I'm setting myself not to have ANY gardening blogs on this (abbreviated!) list. Nor will I mention people who have left comments. Of course, this means lots of excellent, gripping, exciting, world shattering, informative, dramatic and flowering blogs will be absent. But I expect you'll forgive me - and I hope you will enjoy these others. I expect, too, there will be connections between your own interests and theirs.

Another thing I've decided - is to put links to particular posts as well as to the blogs themselves. This way, you won't be launched, by chance, into a description of what the blogger happened to eat for breakfast that day. (We all have our not-so-good-at-finding-anything-interesting-to-say moments!)

Diana has also specially asked me to pick blogs which are well written.

Here is a post I identify with. The more ecological we try to be . . . the more obstacles are put in our way of being so!

It is from

'Drugs Don't Work, Really They Don't'

and the post is

'Weekends are a time to relax, unwind and have a little fun'

Now, one of the things about 'Drugs Don't Work, Really They Don't' is that the writer (Button Ginger) has stopped blogging there. She seemed uncertain whether anyone was reading it - and was going through hard times too. So . . . maybe if you were to leave comments, she will be encouraged and start again. I hope she does.

Next one . . .

'Brits in the U.S.A.'

The blog author is David MacCaulay. Until fairly recently, he was a journalist but has just started teaching literature to Grade 10 students. Some challenge!

And the post I'm recommending is

Charleston Cemeteries

. . . where he finds himself thinking about cemeteries round the world and how they reflect the culture and beliefs of the society which constructs them.

The third (and last for today) blog I suggest you take a look at is

Occassionally J

'J' lived and taught, for a while, in China. Now she is back in Worthing - on the Sussex coast. She is in her mid-twenties and, while she re-settles and relaxes in the familiar - she is anxious about what to do next; sometimes she misses life in China too.

It is a difficult choice, choosing one post from 'Ocassionally J' but

Love / Hate

might be a good place to start. It's a list but, sometimes, lists can hold a lot. I suggest you browse through the blog!

Try Mah Jong

or

Apples

* * * * *

A few weeks ago, I got fed up with Google Chrome and switched back to Internet Explorer. Then I got in a muddle about how to find my blogs. (Hmm!) So I did a search for Esther's Boring Garden Blog and noticed something I had missed in Gary's Garden.

If I am away for a while, I don't necessarily read back over all the posts I've missed; on any blog! So I'd missed a compliment there. I was thrilled. Gary hadn't told me about it. He'd just said it and moved on.

Usually, if I mention a blog, I tell the author so if they object or want something changed - I can sort it.

But, on this occasion, I'm not going to. I'm not going to tell Button Ginger or David MacCaulay or J that I've suggested you visit them. Let them simply be pleased that they get extra visitors. And as I don't know if they keep or look at statistics . . . perhaps you would leave them comments . . . ?

* * * * *

And perhaps you will forgive the absence of pictures today . . . look at their photos instead. (If they have them!) (They don't always.)

.

* * * * *

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P.S. The challenges have been issued by MO and VP and DIANA and JANIE

IF THEY WON'T BE ILL PROPERLY - LET THEM COUNT MATCHES

About time I wrote a list again because lists are definitely boring.

In the last few weeks:-

I've washed the windows.

I've ripped the covers and the padding from the dining chairs and left nothing but the hessian stretchers. (Because the food on the fabric was smelling.)

I've bought new coverings and drawing pins and I've hoovered several times.

I've emptied lots of boxes so there are more places in the house to stand.

I've nearly caught up with the washing.

And in the next couple of days - I'll have a fit. Maybe today.

I'm rarely up to date with the news.

Most news I hear comes through the radio.

(We buy a paper once a week.)

The news-readers announce something that turns out to be wrong.

An interviewee explains.

Later, the mistake is announced again.

Once again, it is explained.

And it goes round.

And round.

Mistakes are often stronger than truth.

An elderly man was receiving a State Benefit because he had a bad leg.

His bad leg meant he couldn't work.

Sometimes, he couldn't walk.

He used a stick.

After a couple of years of doctors' appointments and medicines, he decided to take matters more into his own hands. Maybe exercise would help?

A friend suggested he went night-clubbing. (Amazing friend!) So he did (go clubbing) - and he learned to dance.

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head –
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”

Alice's Version from 'Alice in Wonderland' - Lewis Carol - 1865

He learnt to dance (this elderly man) so well, so terribly well that he entered a competition - on the television and, wonder of wonders - he won.

And the thing which brought the crowd to its feet (so I hear) - was when he danced on his head.

.

.

.

His legs still swell. He still needs a stick. (From time to time.) None the less, he has a new career - as a head dancer. (Or something!)


.

So he told the Benefits Office and his Benefit has stopped.

Quite right.

No dispute.

But there are complaints.

He should pay all his money back! If he doesn't need money now, he can't have needed it 'then'! If his leg is causing him less trouble that it did, there can't have been much wrong with it at all - can there? (Can there?)

People who are well don't like it when ill people, or disabled people 'get better'. Distinctions blur confusingly.

We need distinctions. How otherwise will we know who to care for, who to praise and, more importantly, who to criticise?

.

The way Disability and Invalidity Benefits are worked out in this country is, broadly speaking, according to need. Do you need help with transport? Someone to be with you? And 'Incapacity' is to do with whether or not you are able (or have the capacity) to work.

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Apparently, Julius Caesar had epilepsy.

So, apparently, did Napoleon.

I've been told this often, in an encouraging way.

I've often wondered about boiling point. There must be a moment, a precise moment, when water stops simmering and starts to boil instead - but that moment is awfully difficult to detect. I know. I've stood by a saucepan and thought 'is it now, is it now?'.


More list:-

I haven't hoovered anything today, or swept, or cleaned, or polished.

I can't be relied upon to count properly, or remember things - let alone to use garden sheers and a trowel wouldn't pierce the ground.

I can't remember words.

There are pauses.

I'm giddy and lurch when I walk round the house.

There are a lot of things I don't know.

I try to get going but my energy fails and I have to be helped back to bed.

If I answer the phone . . . I may speak clearly, cheerfully, coherently. Or my speech will slur and though I don't drink - I'll sound drunk.

(Well, I drink tea.)

(And coffee.)

(And water.)

(And cappuccino.)

(If I'm in a cafe.)

(Because I like to eat the froth off the top. It's worth the extra 20p merely for the fun of it! (The froth of it.) )

I'm tempted to walk around. Get it over with. (The fit.) Because I know it is coming and it will take three days of rest and sleep and fretful waiting before I am strong again. Then, I might have another one (a fit) . . . or not. I might be fine and run to town and put new covers on chairs and fill in the holes where bottoms should be with kapok and a material which is very strong and the lady in the shop said is fire retardant too and who laughed politely (the lady, not the material) when I said I wasn't planning to set fire to the chairs - and I'll top-them-off with bright red leatherette. (Horrid word!)

But it's frightening too. And annoying. I've done so many useful things in the last three weeks and when the fit comes, I'll stop. (I've stopped already! I'm sitting up in bed to write this.) And everything will slip backwards.

* * * * *

We're coming up to an election.

(We're not really. It'll be ages yet - but it casts a backward shadow.)

Politicians don't like ill people. They don't like people with disabilities. They say they do but, when an election looms, they (the politicians) don't. They like to seem tough instead. Suddenly we (people with disabilities) become malingerers.

I used to be excited if I had a few weeks without a fit.

I'd hoover the carpet and wash the windows and imagine all the things I could do if it took less than one whole morning followed by an afternoon of rest to change the sheets on one bed.

I still get excited - though the excitement is tinged with bitterness (I'm ashamed to say) because I know the optimism always ends with . . . a fit.

But when the shadow of an election falls across the country . . . my pleasure, my brief satisfaction that things are feeling, for a moment, ordinary and alright . . . all these nice things are touched with fear.

When is boiling point?

When did the man who can dance on his head become fit enough to work?

And when work for elderly men who dance on their heads dries up . . . will he still be fit to work . . . ? After all, fitness for work is nothing to do with whether there is work for you to do but whether you could do it if there were.

What happens if that man's leg swells up and he can't get to where he will dance?

Has anyone heard of new career opportunities opening up for megalomaniac, warmongering, empire builders with epilepsy who want to shatter history (preferably in Dorset)?

There may be one available for employment.

After the election.

* * * * *

MONDAY MATHS - 4 x 8

Education continues!

4 eights are 32

I've lost my money

What can I do?

I've got a plan

-Borrow from you

4 eights are 32

POETRY AND CABBAGES

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When 18,000 people voted in a BBC online poll, T.S. Eliot was declared (by the BBC) to be Britain's favourite poet.

Here are three opinions.

(Of mine.)

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1. Such a poll means nothing.

2. One can't have a favourite poem.( It would be like saying 'here is my favourite molecule' . . . or . 'most entrancing brick'.)

3. Every poem must make it's own way in the world; solo; independent. And that means one can't have a favourite poet. (I'm dismissing the views of anyone who likes the poems of only one author. Or who is married to one.)

Here is some speculating.

1. If Britain has a favourite poem, it is set to music.

('Lean on Me' would be a strong contender. 'One Day at a Time Sweet Jesus' would be in with a chance.)

2. If Britain has a favourite poet, it is a song writer.

(Which means Bill Withers could be our favourite poet, with 'Traditional' or Marijohn Wilkins or Kris Kristofferson (or whoever it was who wrote 'One Day at a Time') as co-winner.

A BBC online poll is no more representative of the nation's taste in poetry than me polling myself (that's what I say) so if I had a favourite poet, I would expect his or her name to be announced on Radio Four and given equal prominence with the T.S. Eliot result. But I don't. (Have one.) Because one can't. (Have one.) (As explained above.) So I can't expect it (the BBC) to announce that poet's name. (As I'm sure they would.) (If I did.) (Have one.) (Which I don't) ('Cos one can't . . . .

I'd like to recommend a Poem though for the Nation - and here is one which expresses what we are like, what we are about, what we hold dear - 'Den to Let' by Gareth Owen.

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(One of the things we (at least, in England) hold dear is not to be patriotic - so 'Jerusalem' is out.)

.

(Which nation are we talking about? I don't know. I'm English. I tend to think in English terms. (Though I used to have a Scottish accent which creeps back within a few seconds of talking to a Scot in a call centre.) (Not just in call centres. Any Scots. But I hear more Scots in call centres than I do in the street round here. (In Dorset) (England) )

.

(Here are a few bracket endings ) ) ) ) ). I'm getting lost. I suggest you have them in hand in case you need them.)

I can't find 'Den to Let' on the internet which may mean some people reading this will find it difficult to get hold of - so I'll copy it out from one of the most wonderful books of children's poetry imaginable - 'The Works 4' (Macmillan Children's Books 2005) which, despite the off-putting note about 'Literacy Hour' on the front cover, is void of pomposity and didactic morality.

Gardeners - there's a compost heap and a vegetable patch.
Animal lovers - there's a dog.
People who like to weep - Well, I always do when it gets towards the end. I try not to. I know what's coming. I try to harden my heart and refuse to be moved. Can't do it. The poem is stronger than me when it gets to 'The only payment'.

Den to Let

To let
One self-contained
Detached den.
Accommodation is compact
Measuring one yard square.
Ideal for two eight-year olds
Plus one small dog
Or two cats
Or six gerbils.
Accommodation consists of:
One living-room
Which doubles as a kitchen
Bedroom
Entrance-hall
Dining room
Dungeon
Space capsule
Pirate boat
Covered wagon
Racing car
Palace
Aeroplane
Junk-room
And lookout post.

Property is southward facing
And can be found
Within a short walking distance
Of the back door
At bottom of garden.
Easily found in the dark
By following the smell
Of old cabbages and tea-bags.
Convenient escape routes
Past rubbish dump
To Seager's Lane
Through hole in hedge,
Or into next door's garden;
But beware of next door's rhinoceros
Who sometimes thinks he's a poodle.

Construction is of
Sound corrugated iron
And roof doubles as shower
During rainy weather.
Being partially underground,
Den makes
A particularly effective hiding place
When in state of war
With older sisters
Brothers
Angry neighbours
Or when you simply want to be alone.
Some repair work needed
To north wall
Where Mr Spence's foot came through
When planting turnips last Thursday.

With den go all contents
Including:
One carpet - very smelly
One teapot - cracked
One woolly penguin -
No beak and only one wing
One unopened tin
Of sultana pud
One hundred and three Beanos
Dated 1983 - 1985
And four Rupert annuals.
Rent is free
The only payment being
That the new occupant
Should care for the den
In the manner in which it has been accustomed
And on long Summer evenings
Heroic songs of days gone by
Should be loudly sung
So that old and glorious days
Will never be forgotten.

What d'you reckon?

(That bit on the end ('What d'you reckon?) is me, I said that. It's not in the poem.)

IN PRAISE OF AMBIGUITY

One of the highlights of the last couple of weeks was when The Bare Faced Gardener said,

"Oh, I see you have olives on your tree!"

Never mind the quality of the fruit (berries? nuts?). Someone from an olive growing region of France had noticed!

When she'd gone, I counted them. If one were to include two micro-olives - thirty.

We drank coffee and ate buns and chatted under the palm trees.

(Cordylines . . . but we like to call them 'palms' round here. Sounds good.)

She didn't mention the vines. (With GRAPES on!) (At least, one of them has grapes on.) (Several bunches AND they are beginning to ripen.) (They don't always.)

We talked about what to put in blogs. "If you have nothing to say," said I, brushing away the problem with an expansive wave of both arms, "make it up!"

Then I thought of Frances wanting to know if the people in my post about fascism really exist. They do . . . or rather they did. The man who wanted to cut rings round trees was elderly when I met him. I doubt if he is still alive. The friend I was staying with at the time died in a car crash. She was the same age as me and I'd always hoped she would be my bridesmaid when I got married but she died before I got round to it. So she never was. (My bridesmaid.) (I didn't have one.) (In the absence of her.) And the lady who wished someone would say 'No!' . . . she, like the rubber-suit man, was elderly when I stayed with her - so I expect she has died too now. There's a lot of it around.

Frances' question . . .

She is right about me making things up. Not often, I must say. Certainly not as often as some seem to assume.

But that's part of the point of the blog. When I began 'Esther in the Garden', it never struck me that people would read it. That people did (and liked it) came as something of a shock. But (garden bloggers put your hands over your ears quickly) I like writing even more than I like gardening so . . . if there's nothing to write about . . . why not dream?

The Bare Faced Gardener suggested it might be ok to conflate but not to invent. If half of something happens in the morning and the other half in the afternoon, it's not always necessary to mention you had lunch in between. She looked very doubtful about making things up. But I've decided it depends on the blog. I mean . . . people would be very surprised if they were to discover Frances doesn't have a beautiful garden. Clearly she has. And that she does (have a beautiful garden) matters to her readers too. So she must tell the truth about it. Of course she must. She would be letting them down if she didn't. And Victoria opens her garden to paying visitors once a year and writes real articles and has an identifiable job. One might almost say she is a public figure - so she couldn't risk saying she has a huge banana plantation or grows roses commercially or has pleached walks leading down to a beautiful river because, when people arrived with their monies, she'd have to put a notice by the gate saying 'You think you've come to see roses and acres of exotic fruit and to swim in rivers of silver - but will a Montezuma and Cannas and a pond do instead?'. Of course, the visitors would be mightily relieved they didn't have to pretend to like thorns or admit they are unused to rowing but, none the less . . . And where would VP be if her gardening advice turned out to be twaddle? But . . . anyone who looks here for photographic inspiration or advice on growing garlic . . . well, they wouldn't would they? And if they did, they'd be daft.

But I do have my standards! Not gardening ones though. Nor truthful ones. (Except in emails.) No, my standards are merely preferences to do with styles of writing. Jesus and Mulla Nasrudin and Anthony de Mello are famous for their thought provoking stories. Rightly so. And their stories nurture truth. But if I tried to write parables and moral tales - I'd land up with Reader's Digest material - and I . . . don't want to. So, if I illustrate political thoughts with descriptions of people and events . . . they are more likely to be true than if I start talking about soil. If they weren't, their power would be lost.

Trouble is, I tend to work under the delusion that people reading this blog can tell the difference between what I mean and what I don't. Don't know why. How could they? But what does it matter either way? If I say I have just made a cup of tea . . . how do you know if I have or I haven't? And who cares? (Except me. An imaginary cup of tea isn't usually as refreshing as a real hot drink.)

So . . . there we were . . . under the palms (Cordylines) near the olive tree . . . near the grape vines . . . and The Bare Faced Gardener said she didn't like Box.

After she'd gone, I counted the box bushes. I have thirty-six. Possibly more because they blend together in places. (As I intended when I planted them.)

On the one-you-win, one-you-lose way of counting - I think I lost five to six. Oh dear!

But I enjoyed her visit. A lot. And the conversation. And if anyone would like to know if I really have an olive tree . . . come and see! (Except for Monica, who doesn't like olives.)

Message to Monica - if (when?) you come to visit, I'll put a blanket over the Olive Tree so you don't have to see it. I'll introduce you to . . . now, let me see . . . would a prairie garden surrounded by a fen suit you instead?

P.S. This post was supposed to be about the challenges VP and Diana have set me but I seem to have wandered off the point. I'll try again another day!

P.P.S. Frances has just been voted the best gardening blogger in the world. The WORLD! (I've just been voted the best gardening blogger in my garden. I treasure the award and have pinned a little plaque about it to the sundial.)

P.P.P.S. When VP came to visit, I gave her a pineapple from one of my hot-houses. She was ever so pleased.

P.P.P.P.S. When The Bare Faced Gardener arrived, she leapt out of her car, gave me a big hug and said 'How many people are you?' Thank heavens I do Monday Maths. Clearly it is more of an educational service than I had previously realised. Imagine being able to travel all the way from France to England without even being able to count as far as 'One'! Funny people, these bloggers.

FLATTENING THE KNOLL AND CONTEMPLATING AGE

An old picture of wind-scorched Golden Bay

I'm giddy from bobbing up and down. I've been dismantling my grassy knoll. Not that my knoll was very grassy. It was really the knoll where no grass grows. I've tried (growing grass) but it won't (grow). (Just there). Probably because the earth is nothing more than dust and the shade (until a week ago) was very, very shady and the dryness (still) is very, very dry.

* * *

I'm in the middle of standardising my garden. By this, I mean I'm cutting the lower branches off everything. I now have a garden full of upright sticks. Sticks with little plumes on the top - with the bay tree towering over them and the grassless knoll a knoll no more but a flat space.

(It was only about three feet square (it still is) but when you have a small garden, you have to think big. So - it was a 'knoll'.)

VP has a regular spot called 'You Ask: We Answer.' (YAWA) I'm going to have an 'I Ask: You Answer' (IAYO)as a 'one-off'.

So . . . here it is - what might I plant in

- very poor earth (dust)
- under a tall bay tree (no lower branches, no nay never no more there aren't 'cos I've cut them all off)

- where there are Bay roots near the surface.
(I've been watering grass seed there so the roots took advantage and were tempted upwards).

(I watered Lily of the Valley there too(dead)
and Asters (dead)
and Box (I've dug it up)) .

I want lots of texture and very little colour. Please.

Meanwhile . . . (and by this I mean while I've been bobbing up and down with a fork and spade and getting giddy) . . . I've been thinking about Happy Mouffetard and her Hydrangeas (or preferred lack of them).

New Zealand Rosemary - Westringia Fruticosa Wynyabbie - The first bush to 'go'

(i.e. to be turned into a plumed stick)

This is not new to me - thinking about hydrangeas. I've been doing it for a long time. I too have noticed how often they sit as huge blobs by the front doors of elderly women with very small gardens. Why?

I've decided it isn't because hydrangeas were popular when these women were young and they've sort of 'hung on' to them. No. I think they (the hydrangeas) are cherished for the very reasons I don't like them - that they are big blobs with big blobs on and the big blobs which are on them stay on them all winter until some new blobs come along and replace them. Sometimes, you can have old blobs and new blobs on the same bush at the same time.

Perfect if you want:-

- lots of flowers (tick)
- big ones (so you can see them if your eyes are failing) (tick)
- a colour which shows up clearly against a leafy background (tick) (for the same reason)

- on bushes which don't need a lot of care (tick) (because you are no longer able to give it)

- and which take up a lot of space (tick) (so you don't have to bob up and down to look after other plants or to weed away the wrong ones) (see where this comes from!)

- and which have winter interest (dead blobs - so that can be ticked too!).

It may well be that the elderly women with hydrangeas disliked them (the hydrangeas) when they (the women) were still young . . . but they've forgotten.

It's a dreadful thought - but it might happen to me too - so I've added 'Don't grow hydrangeas' to my list of things not to do when I'm old. I've had it (the list) for a few years now. Slowly it's been growing. If I don't have it written and ready, I might have forgotten what's on it by the time I need it.

This is a dead Aster

1. Don't wear socks when wearing a long skirt.
2. Don't have your hair permed.
3. Don't wear cream or white or fawn.
4. Wash more often than you think necessary.
5. Wash your hair . . . ditto.
6. Pay someone to wash your cups and cutlery once a month even if you think they don't need it. (The cups and cutlery.) (Got to be clear about this.)
7. Sing. Even if people don't like your voice any more - sing.
8. Don't die your hair.
9. Talk to strangers. (But don't mention your age.)
10. Remember your memories are more than memories - by the time you are old(er) they will be history. Hang on to that. Don't let anyone suggest they aren't interesting. (But, if you can still count, count how many times you have recounted any particular event.) (Ha!)
11. Don't trip over the cat.

And now . . .

12. Don't plant a hydrangea beside the front door.

or . . .

12. Be brave. Plant a hydrangea by the front door.

This is the same dead Aster - only further down the page

* * *

For more about life with the Westringia Fruticosa Wynyabbie - (Gem) - (WESTRINGIA FRUTICOSA WYNYABBIE - (GEM))

I ONCE MET A MAN WHO WANTED EVERYONE TO WEAR RUBBER

I once met a man who wanted everyone to wear rubber. He said the Fairies had told him to cut rings through the bark round the trunks of trees. He hadn't got his pension book because someone had offered to 'look after it for him' and he'd let them. And he was homeless. At least, he had been homeless until he'd been given a place in a house for men coming off the streets - men who didn't want to live rough any more and might have a chance to settle.

I was staying in that house for a few days, visiting a friend. That's how I met him. The room I was sleeping in had no windows and there was a hole in the concrete floor by the door - so you had to be careful if you got up in the night! It was the first place I'd visited where fleas were as much at home as the humans who lived there.

The conversations I had with him were worrying. Not because of their content - but because I couldn't see the difference between him and Hitler. I'm not wanting to cause offence by saying this. What I mean is that although Hitler was clever and had a philosophy and would never have given his pension book to someone else 'to look after' - he was only able to wreak the havoc he did because other people let him. What if they had found him a place to live instead of making him their leader . . . had cooked for him as they did for the man who wanted to cut rings round trees. No-one called the man I met 'evil', however disconcerting his manner or unpleasant his views. But neither did anyone put him in a position of power so he could put his ideas into practice. Who is evil? Who is not?

I was once stranded in Berlin. I'd gone to a student conference and was planning to go from there to Czechoslovakia to visit a friend in Prague - but it snowed. The Norwegian delegates thought it was hilarious that the trains had stopped - but stop they had . . . and I was stranded.

I'd been billeted with an elderly lady who was organist at her local Church and she let me stay on. She fed me. She took me to her Church with her. She introduced me to her elderly friends. They came to visit - and we slipped and slided together on our way to visit them.

One evening, she talked about her brother. He had been a pilot during the second world war and had been shot down and killed. She was younger than him and had been part of the Hitler Youth. "We all had to join," she said. Then she paused - and changed it. "We wanted to," she said.

She talked about what was, by the time she was speaking to me, the situation in Germany. Students were protesting because society was too strict. When the police intervened strongly, the students protested more - so the police got tougher . . . . It was a vicious circle. "What we need," she said, her eyes brightening and her voice growing deeper and louder, "is for someone to say 'No!' ". And, with the 'No!', she brought her fist down with a smash on the little table where we were eating. She was shouting. It was winter (obviously is was, with the snow) and the room was lit with candles. I'd learnt a new word 'Gemutlich' - cosy, homely, warm and pleasant. It wasn't gemutlich any more.

Then she subsided. "It's hard for you British to understand," she said. "We aren't used to democracy. Sometimes we just want someone to say 'That's enough!'.

I don't know. I don't know how many people thought like her. She was lovely. I still remember her with warmth. She housed me and fed me when I had little money and no-where to go and there was lots of snow outside. She would have liked someone to say 'No!'. She would have liked someone to take control; someone she could follow, who would protect her, who would break the circle, stop things getting worse.

I've been thinking about these people - the man to whom the fairies gave unpleasant instructions and the woman who was trying not to want a dictator . . . because I'm re-reading 'Rebecca' by Daphne du Maurier.

(If anyone doesn't know the story and doesn't want to . . . you'd better stop here because I'm about to give a summary.)

. . . . A young woman, little more than a girl, marries a much older man (Max de Winter). He is handsome and wealthy but harbours a dreadful secret - that he murdered his very unpleasant (though strikingly beautiful) first wife - Rebecca. Overawed by him, his house, his servants, his wealth, his age, his fame . . . the new Mrs de Winter allows herself to be bullied by Mrs Danvers, the sour and dour housekeeper who harbours such a morbid devotion to the dead Rebecca that she sets out to destroy the new wife. In the end, she destroys herself, along with the house and a way of life which could have been gentle and fresh and full of country air and sea breezes. And, in the process, she comes to symbolise female obsession, jealousy and evil for book readers and Hitchcock fans alike.

(I'm talking about a symbol here. How 'female' emotions come to be perceived and stereotyped is a separate matter. Symbols are symbols.)

I don't usually re-read books and, with this one, it's not much fun; I don't know why I'm putting myself through it. (Maybe to prove I'm not a wimp?) All the time, I'm wanting to shout 'Don't wear the dress. Don't wear the dress. Whatever you do - don't wear the dress!'. (You have to read the book to know why.) And all the time, I'm thinking - I don't think Mrs Danvers is the villain here, whatever the tradition. It's Max de Winter. Why didn't he sack the housekeeper? Why didn't he tell his new wife he'd murdered Rebecca? Well, he couldn't have done that - but he might have mentioned that, in his opinion, she was terrible and cruel and not all she was cracked up to be; that he'd stopped loving her long ago. That way, the poor mouse of her replacement might not have tortured herself by thinking (the poor mouse) that she was a gauche failure in comparison.

Not very deep thoughts. But you've got to think of something while you hack back your garden because it has become a forest instead of a glade. I don't think I would vote for a man who wanted me to wear rubber. But I might be weak enough to let politicians take more power than is good for them and then blame them for the result. And if I were to have a society beauty as an ex-wife, instead of an extra-terrestrial as a husband, I might be half pleased with the memory, hang on a bit to the glory which had rubbed off on me, even if she had been the kind of person best not to marry in the first place.

This isn't a post. Not a regular one. I'm in the middle of a gap. It's just that I'm feeling sorry (and grateful) for (and to) people who have this blog in their sidebar despite the little note underneath which says it hasn't been updated for five weeks. And I thought, I bet I can come up with a better headline than 'WEDNESDAY WORD AND HOUSEHOLD NOTES - ON A THURSDAY' so I've changed it to 'I Once Met a Man who Wanted Everyone to Wear Rubber' instead.

I suppose I could add 'Gloves' - then it might count as boring.

WEDNESDAY WORD and HOUSEHOLD NOTES - ON A THURSDAY

Persimmon

.

Household Notes

.

When I lived in Fife, a newspaper headline said:-

.

Cars Stolen in Fife

.and the whole article was as follows:-

.This month, no cars were stolen in Fife.

.

I cut it out and stuck it on my wall.

.

In the same spirit:-

.

I did no housework today.

I visited the tallest Plane Trees in England instead.

MONDAY MATHS - 9 X 10

Astronaut Ben

Said to Astronaut Len

.

"I wonder if 90

Is 9 x 10".

.

But Len didn't hear,

So he said it again . . . . . (Louder!)

.

"I wonder if 90

Is 9 x 10".

OLIVES AND OZYMANDIAS

There's a programme called 'Gardeners' Question Time' on BBC Radio 4. It has been part of my life for . . . well, the whole of my life. Like The Archers.

And, from time to time, the questioning gardeners ask about plants and trees which some of the 'answerers' think are patently ridiculous for anyone in England to be growing at all - like olive trees. "Well," they go. "You can grow an olive tree if you like but you won't get any olives". Then lots of other gardeners write in and say things like, "My olive tree has fruit - five genuine olives.". And the people on the panel smirk a bit (I can hear them doing it) and say "Five olives does not make a crop". And people like me think, "Yes it does! - In Dorset!".

A couple of years ago I had five olives on my tree. They ripened to black. I ate them. (I wouldn't have offered them to anyone but me.) And I stood and chewed, and walked around for a bit - chewing - and thinking, very proudly, how wonderful it is to own an olive tree.

This year, I have two bunches with little green dots of olives. BUNCHES! Of OLIVES!
Ha! Gardeners' Question Time. I'm not going to starve if my olive crop fails but I am going to be very pleased with my bunches. (If they ripen.)

I expect it will stop raining one day - the clouds cleared and the sun came out briefly yesterday afternoon.

.

The word (For Wednesday) was . . . still is . . .

.

OZYMANDIAS.

Click here for the transcript of an Olive Tree discussion. This one happened quite far north in England where the growing conditions are very different from where I live now so it's not really fair to use it as an illustration. On the other hand, it gives an idea of the jolly sort of atmosphere which pervades the Gardener's Question Time Programme - which people (like me) enjoy as much for its entertainment as its information.

THE RAIN IT RAINETH EVERY DAY

It doesn't stop. Everything is green and lush.

That's enough, thank you.

(Rain.)

For a bit.

A few years ago I grew an impressive group of tomatoes. The plants were huge and fruitful and the wonder of anyone addicted to side-shooting. (I don't.) (Side-shoot.) Secretly, I attributed this success to my recently demised guinea pigs who had had their run on that bit of garden. Then blight set in. Baskets of shrivelling, fossilising, thick-skinned, un-ripening tomatoes with brown marks. Delicious. Ha!

I left it a few seasons.

Last year - tall, sturdy plants with lots of flowers. The flowers fell off.

This year. One plant in the ground. Fruit appearing. Two in pots (with fruit appearing). (Another in a pot too small. No fruit appearing. Ignore that one.)

Rain.

Rain.

Flowers hanging damp and dripping - how's a pollinator supposed to get in there? Self-pollinating? No, everything's stuck. Stuck together petals. Pollen turned to mush.

Oh, the joys of life! Hey nonny-no!

I once heard that the foll-diddle-rolls in Elizabethan madrigals are where the rude bits have been censored - or to hint at things which could only be sung out loud in taverns. Swearing to music!

I think Wessex Water might have resisted the temptation to hand VP an invitation to tour the Sewage Works the very moment she got off the train. That's carrying a Dorset welcome to un-necessarily enthusiastic lengths, I would say.

And I think the park gardener who decided to chainsaw the bushes by the bench where we were eating our lunch-time picnic could have done his hedge tidying before her visit, not have waited until she was here.

The people who tarmaced the way home just about managed to finish in time - as long as we kept moving, our feet didn't stick to the ground.

I think Worthing and Didcott might have asked her if she minded her trainers being caked in grey Lyme Mud . . . or Kimmeridge Clay . . . or whatever it is . . . before they took her on that particular sea-side walk. (That's another route where you have to keep moving. If you don't, you sink. And you keep sinking, or sink as far as your knees (or something) until the Coast Guards come.) (Lucky they kept walking!) It's good for strengthening your leg muscles. Your shoes are much heavier when you reach home than when you started out.

And it didn't rain on the day she arrived.

Or much the next day.

Then it did.

And it still is.

(Raining.)

And I would have quite liked not to have had a fit while she was here. Still, it wasn't a 'bad' one - and that's life, isn't it? Rain and falling off your chair. And having VP catch you when you do. (Begin to fall off your chair!)

(Thanks VP.)

(Mega.)

Hmm.

(I'm hoping she'll come back some time. Then we'll be able to have the coffee on the beach we promised her - and as we would have done if it hadn't rained . . . and take her to see the woods-which-I-thought-Ming-had-taken-her-to-except-I've-just-discovered-he-took-her-to-see-his-favourite-road-instead. (Favourite road indeed!)

WHY DO WE NOT LIKE MATHS?

Why do we not like maths?

Some do. I know that. But most don't. And for those of us who make up that 'most' - the answer seems obvious . . . maths is difficult . . . and, (we say) most of it is irrelevant - we never need it once we've left school . . . except . . . except . . . there are lots of things (difficult and irrelevant) which we a happily do (and with interest) long after we've left school; for the whole of our lives, indeed - so how can our resistance be explained . . . ?

I think, I think it's because there aren't enough boxes in maths. By a box, I mean a context which shows something is complete. And by a 'context', I don't mean a real life one or a useful one . . . but one which bestows the satisfying sensation of having seen something right through to its end. A bit like a crossword. A crossword is irrelevant and useless and doesn't contain all the words in the world - but we feel satisfied when we've filled in the answers . . . and if we don't get them all done today, we will let them simmer in and out of our minds until the last clue falls into place . . . and, if it doesn't, who cares? It's only a game. And because it's a game, we might come back and do another puzzle, another time. But maths . . . well, it seems open ended, far too open ended, it goes on and on for ever and we never seem to come to the end of any of it.

I was unwell for a couple of days in the last week and sat in bed trying to work out how to make three columns on a blog. Html is about as frightening as maths and the page went blizzy in front of my eyes. It simply merged into a blodge. I should have been resting, not sitting up trying to make three columns - but I couldn't stop, I simply couldn't stop until I'd got them.

And the experience was liberating. If I could spend a whole day making a page with three columns and extras when I had absolutely no need for them - and feel, not that I'd wasted my time, nor what an idiot I must be to take have taken so long - but pleased instead that I'd learnt something new - why couldn't I spend a day doing just one algebra question and go to bed happy knowing the hours had been used well? Or working out why a negative multiplied by a negative is a plus . . . . ?

My skin has broken out in a sweat.

I've gone cross eyed.

When the moment comes, when I set aside time to tackle negatives, I won't want anyone to see what I'm doing. Nor will I want them to tell me it's easy. Definitely I won't want that! Because it isn't. (Easy.) If I owe money then borrow twice as much more, then I'm three lots of money in debt, not suddenly and miraculously in credit. (Have you noticed the withering glances of mathematicians if you advance this objection? It's a terrible faux pas.) I managed to fail my maths G.C.S.E. four times - mainly because I was so frightened of numbers my vision went all wrong and I could see only a big, white, emptiness where the page should have been. If I concentrated, I could make the mists clear in little patches and catch glimpses of small groups of equations or triangles. It was like looking through a telescope. How can you pass an exam if you physically can't see the questions?

Sometimes, if I'm trying to work out how to do something on the computer, someone will come by and say 'Oh, you just press this, then this, then this, then . . . there, I've done it for you! See?' Am I pleased? NO! I'd rather spend HOURS trying to work it out for myself, I'd RATHER FAIL than have someone interfere and do it for me! So why don't I chose one difficult box - the multiplication of negatives (instant clammy skin) and work it out for myself? If I got three columns by using html, I reckon I should, given time, be able to multiply negatives and land up with positives.

I've even found a use for three columns.

Maybe I'll find a use for negative numbers.

(Sounds like spinning straw into gold to me.)

MY EXCITING DAY

This is a short list of events in an exciting day:-

1. A slug has eaten all the leaves on a hyssop plant, leaving just the stem so it looks almost exactly the same as the romanesque eaten by catterpillars. I am now the proud gardener of two green sticks / stumps.

2. I've been wondering whether the Photinia Fraseri Red Robin (Dwarf) I've been given will be as short as I hope it will be.

3. I've been doing sums. Sometimes it's nice if they make me look as if I've got lots of money so I feel all warm and rich and full of potential. Sometimes it's nice when they make me look poor - because that helps explain why I don't have any. (Money.) I suppose the answer is that I am and I amn't.

4. I've been eating our first squash . . . all tender and pale and green and succulent and melt-in-the-mouth-ish and surprisingly filling.

5. I've been . . .

. . . well . . . well . . . that's it, really.

THE THIRD COLUMN

This may, or may not, work.

I was fiddling around with gadgets and the looks of things when I came up with the idea of making a window - so people can climb through to a selection of Dorset blogs . . . not a very wide group of blogs admittedly, not at present anyway - but the blogs written by me and my neighbours, Lucy ((Loose and Leafy and Pictures Just Pictures) and Mary (Hugh and Camellia).

They've got different readerships, this group of blogs, but there is an overlap, and a window might be useful for overlappers. And a way in for new readers too.

Then, having decided to make a window, I began to wonder whether I might have an advert on it . . . for people to come to Dorset . . . or buy magazines about Dorset . . . something like that.

I wouldn't have adverts on other blogs - ones that aren't windows. Nor would Lucy or Mary. And all our other blogs will trundle on undisturbed and as usual. But a window is like a shop front - which might have notices about cleaners and gardeners on the glass. You wouldn't expect to have the same little cards stuck on your apples, bananas or books though.

Do you see what I mean?

That's a warning. You might not want to have anything to do with such a place. (You could wear a gas mask, I suppose.) (Or wellies.) (Or a bee-keeper's suit.)

But here it is.

The Third Column

You'll find this same post there (more or less) - and all the other elements will be bits and bobs from elsewhere - but that's the idea - and I stuck them on (as if it's a scrap-book) to make it look like the beginning of something (which it is).

Opinions welcome

.

Esther

WEDNESDAY WORD

.

Exponential

MONDAY MATHS (aNd a m m Essage from VP - S.O.S!)

Something's gone wrong. This is yellow and black in the original. All bright and cheerful. It's night-time, clearly, but I didn't know it.

VP's gone badger hunting.

We gave her lettuce soup and rum trifle for supper. Had to do it. Ming's Mum will be arriving in a washing machine around mid-night and I don't want her to hear all the thumps and bangs in the shed so she MUST sleep well. (VP, that is.) (Not Ming's Mum.) (Ming's Mum is not a dormouse.) (Ming's Mum keeps asking about Victoria. She (Ming's Mum) says she (Victoria) waves so prettily.)

Bit of a rush to get this done before she (VP) returns.

* * * * *

What's my rate? .

10 x 8

.

Listen matey,

.

I want 80.

* * * * *

Oh, she's back. (VP is.)

Bye for now.

_____

.

VP IS COMING TO STAY - PANIC STATIONS!

My garden bird cage. (Plants on inside. Birds kept away. As poplularised by Monica. (But I thought of it first!) )

VP is coming to stay (not for ever, I hasten to say but for a few days next week) and this, of course, has thrown the family into a state of nervous tension and crisis.

The thing is, I don't have two large Victorian Greenhouses.

What is the point of the internet if you can't be who you want to be when you are on it? (The internet.)

When I started 'Esther in the Garden' I decided to give myself two Victorian Greenhouses (they were always in my mind) where grow grapes and orchids and pineapples - sustained by the heat generated from a wood-burning stove in an adjoining brick shed and pumped through a complicated system of under-earth pipes in raised beds.

I also gave myself long, lavender-lined walks, a vegetable garden, a sundial and a lovely statue of a naked lady contemplating lilies I don't have because there wasn't room enough left (what with the potting shed and the gardener's cottage, the swing in the pear tree and the wheel-barrow-painting business).

So we've been busy building scenery - of the Ealing Studios / Blazing Saddles variety. Mrs Rustbridger complained. (Of course she complained. She complains about everything.) First she said we were making too much noise. Then she said our pretend Greenhouses block light from her garden. (She lives on our North Side.) "Why couldn't you have used glass?" she wanted to know. "Because painted hardboard windows look more realistic," I told her. "And stop bothering me. I've got enough to worry about already. We haven't a cook, or a maid or a gardener or a gardener's boy. Whatever will VP think? Whatever are we going to do?"

Mrs Rustbridger volunteered to be the cook on condition we dismantle the fake greenhouses before next Friday.

Her grandson will be the gardener's boy. (He's bought braces (of the trouser-holding-up variety) better to look the part.)

Miss Martin's chauffeur will be the gardener.

I will tell VP I've given Mary-Jane a few days off to visit her sick mother. (That's the traditional excuse. No-one accuses one of lying. It's a bit like saying one is not at home - when one is.)

Then there's the house to sort. We've painted the walls (too white, but it's done now) and I'm hoping VP will turn out to be short sighted so she won't notice the paint on the newly cleaned carpet, or the coffee stain on the stairs (where Ming dropped his mug and it bounced down several treads while he was trying to mop up the paint) or the mud everywhere because Worthing is so pleased with his new walking boots that he won't take them off. Ever.

Attractive Montgomery Barrows Painted to order.

You can't blow bubbles in milk-shake without drinking some first, especially if you want to make the bubbles rise above the rim of the glass.

This is what has happened to our house. The bubbles have risen. We had to do a bit of tidying so we could get to the walls to paint them so we piled everything into the middle of the living room and began to sort. Most of it is still there. We're almost getting used to it. The trouble is, the more we sort, and the more we throw away, the more space is needed by what is left.

This morning, I have been tearing up milk bills from 1997. They all have neat little ticks on them to show they have been paid and dates to show they were paid on time. (Not like the 1998 Wessex Water Bill and final demand which says I was about to be cut off. Can't remember why that happened, or how it can have happened when I pay by direct debit.)

I also came across a 'Messenger and Reminder' magazine from the Bincombe with Broadwey, Upwey and Buckland Ripers Parishes. (Year unknown but in with the milk bills - so there's a clue.)

They (Bincombe, Broadway, Upwey and Buckland Ripers) had been planning to hold a 'Strawberry Tea at Batchfoot' - but it had been called off and crossed out in biro. Imagine having to go through the Bincombe with Broadwey, Upwey and Buckland Ripers 'Messenger and Reminders' magazine to cross the Strawberry Tea at Batchfoot advert out of every copy!

I've been wondering what Victoria and Emma do all day at The Independent Newspaper and Magazine. Now I know!

But the best bit ( in the Bincombe with Broadway . . . . Reminder and . . . ) is the Rector's Letter.
I won't type it all out here - but the first two paragraphs are the best.

Here they are, word for word.

"My Dear Friends

So Transport 2000 wants the Police to enforce the letter of the 30 MPH speed limit. Well, now, that's an interesting concept. Not that it will make each of us rigidly keep to the speed limit, though of course we should, but that a single-interest group wants to turn the police into something they are not.

Our Police are not Law Enforcement Officers, though that may come as a surprise to some. That is an American model, and not the one that has ever been applied or ought to be applied in this country. Imagine for a moment if a policeman were a Law Enforcement Officer, and what it might mean for us. There is a real difference between Keeping the Queen's Peace and actually enforcing the law, and I'm sure most of us would chose the former. The latter cuts right across our traditional values and way of life, and would - if rigidly applied - place nearly every citizen in a state of fear."

I don't properly follow the next sections but I think it shows that Jesus is not a member of the Dorset Constabulary and the citizens of Broadwey etc. . . . do not want God to be a law enforcement officer (so he isn't) and that Jesus came to set us free from speed restrictions and, in particular, to leave the residents of Buckland Ripers (et. al.) to do anything they like, as long as they do it peaceably and in an un-American way - for if they put their trust in Him, they will be forgiven everything.

I wish Ming hadn't stood in the middle of the garden to swung his paintbrush until every plant was spattered with little white dots.

Or leaned the paint-tray against the ammonite.

* * * * *

I hope a wind doesn't knock down our scenery. The Greenhouses look rather good.

* * * * *

I hope Mrs Rustbridger doesn't get swine flu until after she's been our cook.

* * * * *

If the pretty little white flowers hadn't fallen off our coffee tree I could have pretended they'd been grown by Miss Martin's chauffeur in the Greenhouse and not on the living room window sill.

* * * * *

I'm off to buy a pineapple.

Wish us luck!

WEDNESDAY WORD

Penstemon

MONDAY MATHS

Four donkeys by the gate

.

Four more beside them

.

2 x 4 tells us that eight

.

Little boys can ride them.

.

It is in the nature of this blog (or me) that matters get dropped before they are completed. The contents of my living room floor bears evidence. I stopped replying to comments about Salamagundi because they made me want to write a post about growing vegetables on a pirate ship. Never got round to it. And now I've wandered off from the vote about how to make 10. It didn't help that 5 + 5 won. That's my least favourite combination. I would have thought the two parts would slide away from each other; 5s are too independent, their edges too smooth. Nor did it help that my top favourite is 9 + 3. I simply can't get it out of my head. Nor persuade myself that it doesn't come up with the right answer - or that 9 + 3 isn't, essentially, the same as 3 + 7 (or, rather, 7 + 3). 7 and 9 have so much in common! It's confusing.

.

In the end, I voted for 6 + 4. Sometimes, I think 6 + 4 is too round but, in the absence of 9 + 3 and still reeling from the horror of 5 + 5 coming out in front . . . well, what else could I do? 5 + 5 is such a murky colour too! Never mind.

.

And as well as going around wondering how I would grow vegetables if I were a pirate, I've been distracted by a Bach Prelude (for a cello, I think) which had Herring Bone stitch in it. I was lieing in bed when I heard it (on the radio) and (as is the way with music) the same little bit . . . more than a phrase . . . a whole sentence and a half, kept coming round. I was lieing there waiting for it, wondering how an embroidery stitch got to be there at all . . . and why it didn't continue . . . why there were stretches of white cloth between each little run and . . . well, has anyone else found embroidery in music? - Not as a metaphor but really seeing it there while the cello plays? (Or flute or piano or percussion or mandolin or wash board or violin or fiddle . . . anyone else like Fiddlers Rallys? (Rallies?) They are not considered 'good taste' by some but I love them. They are stirring and exhilerating and wonderful. (Now I'll find no-one knows what they are.) )

.

Huh!

HOUSEHOLD TASKS AND GARDENING NOTES - A DIARY ENTRY

A nice autumn air to the morning; sunshine and a brisk breeze.

.
Put a desk together from a kit yesterday afternoon. Started with two screws short and ended with one shelf upside down but otherwise - it looks good.

.
One more table.

.
If our house were to be characterised by anything it would be noted for its books, papers, boxes and tables. One more (table / desk) to go - then I think we will have enough. (Though I'd have two more after that if I had space.)

.
Gave someone a copy of 'Corvus' by Esther Woolfson, yesterday. Made the mistake of not reading it first.

.
Planted Lavendula Stoechas Alexandra next to the last of the brilliant orange Californian Poppies. Looks wonderful. Bright orange and deep purple is my favourite colour combination for flowers. Can't be sad when I look at it.

.
The first baycorn for this year has germinated. A sucker I dug up and stuck in a pot a couple of months ago seems to have 'taken'. I will have a bay forest one day. (Except it will be one tree short because I tipped one (baycorn) out by mistake and only realised what I'd done when I came across the empty pot with a date on it.)

.
School summer holidays begin today - the most testing time for gardeners. I can only do anything at the front of the house in the early morning when no-one is looking . . . and the back garden is under constant bombardment from footballs, empty plastic drinks bottles and flying Action Men.

.
There's a new fashion in the street amongst the smaller children. They ring on the doorbell then stand in a silent row until one of them laughs. The one who laughs first has to ask for a teabag - which they all find very funny. I have taken to putting the teabag on the head of the person who laughs so some of them now ring on the bell and simply ask if I will put a tea bag on his or her head. I've had to announce a new rule that I will be be giving out only one teabag a day.

.
All my tomatoes are growing outside so greenhouse-tomato-growers may feel smug and hug their own, more advanced, versions gloatingly to themselves. (Metaphorically speaking.) (Or even literally, who knows?) But I am pleased because my first mini tomato has appeared amongst the yellow flowers. It's one of the Italian ones so it looks rather odd - ripples and ridges - if I didn't know (from last year) that it is meant to look like that, I might be worried. If I didn't know (from last year) what a wonderful taste this variety has, I wouldn't be so excited.

.
Here starts the day.

.
Here starts the holidays.

.
Here come the explanations:-

.
"Well, it's a plant and I put it there and I like it."

.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't pull the leaves off."

.
"I know they are nettles. Yes they do sting. But if you hadn't been walking on my flower bed they wouldn't have hurt you."

.
"If you rub this leaf gently between your fingers - leaving it on the plant - you'll find it smells nice - perhaps it would be more practical, given the size of the plant and the shortage of leaves, if you were to do it one at a time?"

.
"No, you can't come and see the back garden. Why? Because there are too many of you."

.
(And I'm anti-social.)

.
(Which is hard work.)

.
(Being anti-social.)

.
My favourite photo on the internet, currently, is that of Walking Onions on Frugilegus' blog. This is the link:-

.
http://frugilegus.wordpress.com/2009/07/16/this-and-that/

..
Happy summer folks - this is where the action begins. (And the Action Men!)

HOUSEHOLD NOTES

The Martian Flag

(A Nasturtium Rampant upon a Field of Green)

I've washed half a floor.

I've planted a nasturtium and watered a marigold.

I've put things in a cupboard which I didn't need on my desk.

I've recycled some papers from the box I'm sorting (from 2001).

I've hung the washing on the line, made some phone calls, written some emails.

Walked up the hill and back.

I've destroyed a weed that was masquerading as a hollyhock.

I'll water some more now.

Then I'll go back to sleep.

Exciting times!

The Martian Flag at Night

(Still Rampant But Against a Purple Sky)

(Because it's dark.)

(At night.)

WEDNESDAY WORD (s)

.

Shoe Laces

I HATE GARDENING

I don't like gardening.

I've decided.

I hate gardening.

I really hate gardening.

I'm fed up with feeding slugs - being a slug food production factory.

What I like is a garden.

Not a park. Parks are lonely.

What I like is a garden I have made - and sitting in it.

I don't care what it looks like; not especially anyway; but I do like to know it is me that put it there.

When I moved here (when there was nothing) I planted the plants which would become big(ish) trees - Cordylines, Spanish Broom, Golden Bay. Then I planted things to grow up them - Honeysuckles, Rambling Rector, Vines, Jasmine.

Then there were the slower growing plants which counted as lower growing plants - Windmill Palm, Antarctica Fern (which died) and Cordylines in pots which I grew from the seeds of the ones which now were tall.

And the never grow big plants - Blackcurrant, Whitecurrant, Crocosmia, Lavender.
And all along there have been the box bushes round the edges and an apple tree against the wall - cos that is where I began.

And the Olive Tree.

And the Lemon Balm lives. So do the chives. Tucked against the dryness of the bushes.

So now I've got down to ground level - bare because everything else has gone up or gone . . . (pause for fanfare) . . . enter annuals. And the slugs say "How kind. We liked the Lilly of the Valley you gave us last year - and the little Hyssop Plants which were supposed to become bushes behind the Box - but we've eaten them all up and were wondering what we could turn to next".

And the Jasmine! The Jasmine with the beautiful leaves. I've been longing for it to flower. This year it did - and made the garden smell as if someone had taken a bath in it. I put up with the scent for a while for the sake of its little white stars - but now I've chopped it back, leaving enough to climb into the Bay; enough so its twisted trunk remains and there are leaves high up to admire. That's it.

And I've trimmed the apple early because it was reaching across the path and getting tangled with a tomato (plant). And I've chopped back the Rambling Rector because it was threatening to lacerate passers by when it waved about in the wind and because everyone except me was fed up with wrestling it aside to get in through the back gate - but I've decided . . I've decided I'm fed up with gardening.

I shall sit back and admire the Convolvulus which is gratefully climbing the branch I put there for a nasturtium. And I shall put out the rest of the annuals for the slugs to eat - and the Lupins too. They can feast - for I won't be gardening. The earth beneath the trees will stay bare. I'll walk on it or admire it for its earthiness and sit and enjoy what's left.

Cos I've stopped. I've stopped. I've stopped gardening.

So there!

WEDNESDAY WORD

.

Vituperation

MONDAY MATHS - WHICH DO YOU LIKE BEST?

.

Which is your favourite way to make 10?

.
There's a list to click in the margin - but don't feel limited by it. If you like like a different way better - then say so!

.

There's something about some numbers which make them more attractive than others, inhabit surprising slots in our minds. It's the same with words. If you live somewhere where bananas are mostly yellow, you might say the word 'banana' is yellow (at least at first thought) but, whether your bananas are yellow or red or have gone past their best and are spotty and black, the word 'banana' may bring to mind green - even if you've never seen a green banana. For me, the word 'banana' is yellow. But this is chance. For someone else, it might be blue.

.

Children sometimes ask 'which is your lucky number?'. They can be quite persistant about this! Answers might be supported by reasons like 'It's my birthday', or 'My house number' . . . but that's not what I'm getting at here. I'm asking which number combinations do you like by instinct, or sense of beauty or . . .

.

I know which mine is in this list.

.

What about you?

.

Remember, the list isn't exhaustive.

.

It has just started to pelt down with rain. That'll be the end of my lupins and hyssop.

.

Here they are again. (They look ugly in the list in the side-bar.)

.

(Nor does the list always materialise.)

(Though it does slow down the loading of the blog. I'll take it away after a week.)

0 + 10 = 10
10 + 0 = 10
1 + 9 = 10
9 + 1 = 10
2 + 8 = 10
8 + 2 = 10
3 + 7 = 10
7 + 3 = 10
4 + 6 = 10
6 + 4 = 10
5 + 5 = 10

.

P.S. There's no reason to ask this question - except that it's Monday.

MORE HOUSEHOLD NOTES (EXCITING THIS, ISN'T IT?!)

My internationally famous staircase got hoovered yesterday. Failure. Not that my readers were of much help. How many cheered me on to do it? Not many! Instead of saying 'Go for it, Esther!' the general (though not unanimous) opinion was that housework is, indeed, boring and best avoided.

Which means cleaning has become the hot topic for this blog. It is both necessary and boring. It belongs.

Here is a list of what I have done today so far:-

Woke at five and collected slugs from the garden. Took them to wild ground and threw them as far as I could, as a block, from my bucket. They landed as a slimy lump at my feet.

Went back to bed.

Six o'clock - woke up and commented on the mist outside. "It was sunny earlier," I said. "I thought it was going to be a fine day."

Ming said, "The windows are dirty,".

True.

The gap between the open bit and the shut bit was bright and clear. The day would be hot and dry. The bit with the glass was white and dull. The day would be cold and damp. It depends on where you look.

List Cont.

('Inued' does not take long to type. Nor does it take much space on the page. So why is 'Cont.' a convention?)

Inued

Two loads of washing. (One hung out. One in waiting.)

Red clothes etc. sorted to put in (the washing machine) next.

(I lived in Switzerland for a while (amongst North Americans and Scots) (mostly) who spoke 'Franglais'. Most words were spoken in English but others stayed French. 'The Caisse', never checkout. 'Marrons' never 'Chestnuts'. Don't know why. Written English in England is much the same - only it's Latish. Why have 'cont.' then 'etc.'? 'A.D.' followed by 'B.C.'? (Only the other way round.))

Planted:-

1.) Two lupins
2.) Three marigolds
3.) Two nasturtiums
4.) Two spare runner bean plants as ground cover.
5.) Did some watering. (Need to do more.)
6.) An onion
7.) An unidentified bulb I found in the kitchen. Possibly a freesia.

Oh. Number 5. isn't 'planted'. Never mind.

Trimmed the edge of the grass.

Typed this.

Now I will have a cup of tea.

(Ah! I missed saying that I ate two slices of toast, drank two cups of coffee and another cup of tea - except I had the other cup of tea before this one - the one I'm about to drink.)

Next:-

I will:-

Drink the tea.
Take everything off my desk.
Dust it. (Both the desk and the 'everything'.)
Put it all back.

I expect the last three items. (ie. (w.i.) everything except for drinking the tea) will be spread over the next three weeks.

I like to have a task in hand.

(Otherwise, I might get bored.)

P.S. I wrote this half way through yesterday.

I did not sort my desk. I piled some of the things off it and onto the only comfortable chairs in the living room. Then I went away. (w.i. Watched tennis.) (No. w.m. would be better.) (Which means 'which means'.)

WEDNESDAY WORD

.

Prestidigitateur

MONDAY MATHS - ON A MONDAY

Here is a problem.

I told Mrs Rustbridger that Columbine is the same thing as Convolvulus (which is also Bindweed). Wild Convolvulus should be called Columbine because it convolvubinds - i.e. it binds other plants into stiff, involved columns by winding round them (and itself) in a convoluted way until they are combined and Columnbined. But it isn't.

(Called Columbine.)

(Convolvulus.)

I didn't tell her the wrong thing out of any sense of malice or mischief but out of sheer and utter but unknowing (in the sense of not-knowing) ignorance. And ignorance spreads. Especially if you don't know that you are ignorant. Which you are. (By definition.)

I've been telling Mrs Rustbridger that, one day, Bindweed really will be called Columbine and Columbine will be bound (elegantly) (with its hat on) to think of another name for itself.

Meanwhile, I've got to help think of a way to change this.

Any suggestions?

What is Bindweed?

- Columbine.

(Not a good beginning.)

What is Sweet Briar?

- Eglantine.

(I hope! I told her that too.)

What is 3 x 3?

- It's 9.

(Of course, this too may be open to question in some mathematical circles.)

(What's that 'e' doing there?)

Why does this writing appear as large on the published post but not on the unpublished one?

INTERNATIONAL HOOVERING

I don't like housework.

I really don't like housework.

Doing housework is one of the most unpleasant ways to spend one's hours. (War time excepted.) (Though even in wars I expect people have to keep up with the dusting. Imagine it. A bomb is about to drop on your street but you tell the children to wipe their feet on the mat just in case it doesn't land on your particular house.) (You can tell I was born and brought up in England after the second world war. Rooms 'look like a bombsite' if they are untidy. 'Bombsite' is a synonym for a rough area of ground in a city. War has gone into the vocabulary of a peace-time generation.)

(It never struck me as odd that if a grown-up acquaintance didn't come to the Church Bazaar it might be because yet another piece of shrapnel was painfully easing its way out of her eye. It was what grown ups did - have bits of metal and slivers of glass come out of their eyes.)

This morning, listening to the 'brown bin lorry' grinding its way up the street, I thought (for a few moments) (and then on and off throughout the day) how little I'd like to pull other people's week-old food waste from their bins if it got stuck.

I wouldn't like that job.

I don't think I'd much like working down a sewer either.

But housework stays, none the less, in the list of my most un-enjoyed tasks.

If I get half way through the watering and think I might stop, I remind myself that mine is an internationally famous garden so I'd better keep going. And then I do. (Keep going.)

So I've been wondering if the same inspiration might work for hoovering too. (Which is also called vacuum cleaning, hoovering is - not for pedantic reasons but because it makes the process sound more scientific . . . if you vacuumed the stairs in a bell jar . . . . Do you remember that? Seeing an alarm clock, its little hammer silently bashing away at the bell on its head? It looked so sad and frustrated.)

(The bell shape of the jar and the bell on the clock are coincidental. They don't make jars specially for alarm clocks. At least, I don't think they do.)

I'd quite like to go to sleep. My eyes keep closing. I had planned to read a book - but I've lost it. I've done the watering (some of it). Haven't the energy for re-potting (there's a lot of it). And I really don't like houseworking so . . . if I say HERE that I need to clean the stairs, and Kanak and Monica and Dee and Mo and Amanda (and everyone else in North America who spends (part of) their time reading boring blogs like this one) (Kanak's not in North America, she's in North East India) the Galloping Gardener (more India) (amongst other places) Stacey (Australia) and the Bare Faced Gardener (France) happen to read that this is what I will be doing (hoovering (vacuuming) the stairs) then maybe I will approach it differently, work at it with a different spirit, an international spirit, the kind of spirit it would be nice for the U.N. to have on good days, a 'let's see this thing through together' kind of spirit and, in the spirit of this blog, I could raise hoovering (vacuuming) to a new level (height) of boringness.

Stairs! Here I come!

(. . . Tomorrow?)

P.S. Who put the 'e' in 'height'?

P.P.S. Does Cornwall have its own parliament yet?

WEDNESDAY WORD ON A THURSDAY

Oh!

I was thinking yesterday was Thursday until I realised tomorrow is Friday so it couldn't have been. (Wednesday.) . Where did Wednesday go?.

I haven't even whittled down to one word, so I'll have a group.

. .
Tosh
Bosh
Cosh
.
Stash
Bash
Cash

.
EvenTrash detached from its meaning.
.
(Why aren't there two 't's in 'detach'?)

MONDAY MATHS

.

I've been doing maths all day. The same thing over and over. (I'm not very good at it.)

.

I had to fill in a form about my income. On several attempts I turned out to be a multi-millionaire. It was an odd feeling.

.

Even when I got it right, my annual income seemed much higher than it actually feels after I've paid the rent.

* * *

.

There's no picture for Monday Maths today because it won't transfer properly onto the blog.

.

Here's the rhyme though:-

.

I slipped and fell -

.

There was blood on my knee.

.

My best friend came and comforted me.

.

She took me home and gave me some tea.

.

7 x 9 is 63

.

When detached from Mrs Rustbridger's art, one can appreciate the true quality of the verse, don't you think?

.

* * *

.

I've just come in from sitting under the grape-vine with a cup of tea. It has lots of flowers on it at present (the vine) and a solitary bumble-bee was pretending to be a jumbo jet above my head as it . . . oh! . . . flew away over the wall. This happened while I was looking across at the apple tree, wondering why it had decided to flower (doesn't it know it's June?) . . . and it was then too that I realised what a fool I am. (Not an unfamiliar sensation.)

.

I've been suffering the ignominy of growing marigolds and nasturtiums from seed (they are the kind of plant which should simply be in the ground untended - like old money) to attract bees to pollinate the vine . . . when, of course (of course!) nasturtiums and marigolds won't come into flower until after the vine has finished (flowering). So what's the point?

.

The Rambling Rector has been so noisy with buzzings, these last few weeks, it has sounded constantly as if ready for take off. (I have a bee loud back gate.) And there hasn't been a moment without bees popping in and out of the sage (at the front of the house). (The flowers are nearly over now.) There was even one in a hollyhock trumpet earlier today. (A bee. Not a sage.)  (Wise or otherwise.)  But bees have no interest in grape flowers as far as I can see and I can't work out what does so the vine continues happily unmolested.

.

I saw someone pollinating a grape vine in a greenhouse once with a rabbit's tail on the end of a stick. Perhaps I should buy a rabbit. I wish time travel were as easy as travelling through space.

.

A mosquito has just gone up my sleave.

.

Sleeve?

HARRY NELSON PILLSBURY AND SALAMAGUNDI

This is going to be a treat.

* * *

I hadn't heard of Salamagundi until I heard of Harry Nelson Pillsbury.

Harry Nelson Pillsbury was something of a show-man; an American; a Chess Player; an operator of 'Ajeeb' - the mechanical genius. (This is the second half of the Nineteenth Century.)

(Well, it was when he was alive.) (Pillsbury.)

Here is a quote from 'The Times Even More Complete Chess Addict' by Mike Fox and Richard James (Faber and Faber 1987 / 1993) p. 133.

'Pillsbury would play up to 22 simultaneous games of chess and draughts blindfold while taking part in a game of whist. Before the display he would ask the audience for lists of words or objects, and repeat them at the end of the display. On one famous occasion in London two professors came up with the following curious list of words.'

(I'll give that in a minute.)

'Pillsbury looked at the list, repeated the words, and then again in reverse order. The next day, he recited them again.'

(I'll miss out the chess.)

It was in this list that I first came across the word 'Salamagundi' (a kind of salad made from cold meats and boiled egg - definitely not to my taste). More commonly, it seems to be spelled 'Salmagundi' - but that doesn't sound anywhere near as good and this is not a cookery blog so I'm going with the spelling as it is in the list. (Cooks can go elsewhere.) (But not yet!) (Stay!) (Read the list first!) (Please.)

(By the way, I'm being very noble copying this list for you. It has so many wonderful words, I could have raided it for a year's worth of Wednesdays and still have some to spare.) (Words.)

(Don't count.)

Antiphlogistine

micrococcus

Etchenberg

Bangmanvate

periosteum

plasmodium

American

Schlecter's Nek

takadiastase

Mississsippi

Russian

Manzinyama

plasmon

Freiheit

philosophy

theosophy

ambrosia

Philadelphia

Piet Potgelter's Rost

catechism

Threlkeld

Cincinnati

Madjesoomalops

streptococcus

atheletics

Salamagundi

staphylococcus

no war

Oomisellecootsi

Have fun!

(I said that.)

(The having fun bit.)

(It wasn't on the list.)

(But I bet they did.)

(Have fun.)

WEDNESDAY WORD

.

Salamagundi

MONDAY MATHS ON TUESDAY

4 sevens are 28

.

What do we appreciate?

.

Mornings early,

.

Bedtimes late.

.

4 sevens are 28.

.

* * *

Monday is on Tuesday this week.

One can take two stairs at a time. Why not two days?

My house came with the right number of stairs and a stack of extra ones hasn't, so far, proved useful. If only modern houses had more storage space. But two days seem to fit well on one post.

Spare 'o's, on the other hand, would have come in handy. Then I could have put one in the middle of 'proved'.

I've been dismantling a bush. When Ming saw what I'd done, he asked how it would transpire. I hadn't thought of that when I shaved off its lower branches and thinned out its upper ones in an attempt to make it grow straight. It now looks like a set of stakes with little green plumes on the top. Its inability to transpire may make it expire but I regret nothing. It's good to find light and roses embedded in it and to let them go free. The choice was bush or garden.

'Come into the bush, Maud.' doesn't sound right.

Now I'm going back to sleep.

I'll catch up with (much appreciated) comments another day. Two days fitted into one is exhausting.

A QUICK CUPPA

The garden is full of scents. The Rambling Rector is rambling. The Honeysuckle is honeysuckling. The Spanish Broom is brooming. And it all smells wonderful until you bring it into the house - where the Broom goes ‘off’ and you have to take it back outside again. (At least, you do if you are me.) (Which you are not.) (Obviously.) (Obvious to me, that is.)

I’m typing this on Microsoft Word (which I haven’t used before) and it's put a squiggly line under every set of brackets at the end of the last paragraph. Why? Two inside-brackets are without a verb but what's wrong with the bracket which has a verb in it? Why would a machine mind anyway? What's it got to do with a programme what I write and how I write it? I’ll swear and see what happens. Oh! I can't! I’m a prude.

But . . . (oh, this is distracting! It's squiggled under ‘But’ now. I’m going back to ‘Works’.)

Ah! This is better. I can breath easy.

. . . . Yesterday afternoon I went into the garden for milk to put in my tea (we don't have a fridge so the milk keeps cool(ish) under the Bay Tree) when I noticed more of the horrid white puffs with brown conical hats on which contain insects looking like a cross between a woodlouse and a caterpillar - on its trunk. (I got rid of scores three days ago.) So I went back to the house for loo paper and began to wipe them off. (Having come back out again.) (Mrs Rustbridger wonders why I dust the garden when I don't bother to dust the house.) (I tell her it's because I get hay-fever.)

(By the way, I wrote this yesterday so you'll need to add an extra twenty-four hours if you want an accurate picture of things.)

And while I was wiping them (the little white puffs . . . ) off, I noticed that a small branch (more of a big twig) of Bay had died so I fetched the secateurs from the kitchen and cut it off.
And while I was cutting it off, I noticed there were quite a few new, thin, green twigs growing straight out from the main trunks so I cut them off too.

And while I was trimming them away, I decided it would be a good idea to thin out some of the more substantial lower branches to let more air in and more light through.

And while I was doing that, I noticed that one of the branches was pressing down on the Jasmine and this was why the Jasmine was pressing down on the washing line so I went back to the kitchen for a saw (which lives behind the bread-maker). (It's not meant to live behind the bread-maker but I put it there once and it's stayed there since.) (Every so often, I think I should use the bread-maker as a bread-maker instead of a place behind which to store a saw, a hammer, some garden string, garden wire, the secateurs and garden gloves.) (Two pairs.) (Of gloves.) (Garden.)

So . . . I sawed off the branch but this meant it pushed down even more on the Jasmine and the Jasmine pressed down harder on the washing line and leant further and further towards the Christmas Tree which lives in a pot in the garden (except at Christmas) threatening to envelope it if it leaned over much further - but it (the branch) wouldn't come free.

So - I tugged and tugged (at the branch) but still the tendril clasps of the Jasmine held it firm.

I went back for the saw.

(I forgot to say, I'd put the saw back behind the bread-maker.)

I'm five foot one or two and shrinking and couldn't reach over the Jasmine to get to the right bit of Bay branch, however hard I stretched, so I went back for a chair (from the kitchen) and stood on it (the chair) so I could saw (the branch) and take it away in bits. (Which I did.)

Eventually - there I was (in the beginnings of steady rain) with a pile of Bay Branches, a bag of scrunched up loo paper wrapped round squashed puffs and grubs, secateurs, saw and kitchen chair.

And no milk in my tea.

(Which had gone cold.)

(Bet 'Word' wouldn't like any of that!)

No imagination.

(Word.)

WEDNESDAY WORD

.

Crack!

.

(Exclamation mark included.)

MONDAY MATHS

I happened to notice just then

.

That a buzzard was chasing a wren

.

But he flew right away

.

When he heard the bird say

.

That 20 is 2 x 10

LOW-TECH PERFECTION

I've just come back from voting.

It's completely unsophisticated - and I love it.

Our voting station was the local Scout Hut where trestle tables had been set up, side by side, making a long desk; and there were three women sitting behind it - waiting.

Afternoon sun shed a gentle light on the scene and it was all very peaceful.

I'd not brought my card. It didn't matter. They found me on a list and crossed me off with a pencil (or possibly a biro) and a ruler. The elections were for the European Parliament and for the County Council. I said I only wanted to vote in the European Election and all three women fell about laughing; really laughing. It was out loud, enjoying life laughing. It was mid afternoon but I was the first person to have wanted only a European Ballot paper. One said I'd made her day. She looked so cheerful I thanked her. It's not often I make someone's day - and I hadn't put any effort into it!

The voting sheet is eighteen inches long and yellow. I take it to one of the booths (brought out and set up at every election) scan down till I find the party I want to vote for, put a big, thick, pencil cross beside it (pencil provided) fold it up (the eighteen inch voting paper) (or eighteen parties - in which case the paper was longer) and take it to the ballot box. Because the papers are so big, they un-concertina when you put them through the slot. One of the ladies pokes it down with the longer ruler she has ready at hand. I apologise that I don't know who to vote for in the county elections. She looks at me severely but doesn't comment.

As I'm leaving, I turn back. Another voter has put her ballot paper in the slot but the ruler trick hasn't worked. The woman behind the desk picks up the box and shakes it up and down and sideways to make the paper fall in properly. I go back out into the quiet sunshine.

Later, when the papers are counted, the candidates and their friends will be there to watch. All the pencil crosses will be clear beside the names. If they aren't, if any papers have marks which aren't crosses or any crosses which aren't beside candidates - they will be set aside and not included in the vote.

Low-tech perfection.

I like our system of democracy.

WEDNESDAY WORD

Zantedeschia

It's quite extraordinary. I'd never come across the word Zantedeschia until I saw three window boxes full of them being put above a doorway and I was so impressed that I went and asked what they were. One of the three people there (one holding the ladder, one up it, one supervising) gave me a label and we ('we' being me and my family) went down the street saying the name over and over and being enthusiastic both about the flower and the name - and if the man with the labels hadn't told me what the flowers were called out loud before he said I could have one (of the labels) I wouldn't have pronounced it properly. ('Zantedeschia', not 'label'.) (Or 'it'.) (I don't have any trouble pronouncing 'label' (or 'it') just spelling it.) (Lable.) Without being told, I'd have made the 'ch' hard and the 'e' before it short.

.

Then I lost the label.

.

And forgot the word.

.

Then I found the label.

.

And began to copy it out.

.

Then I began to think the flower on the label looked familiar from elsewhere (only a different colour).

.

Yup!

.

VP gave some to Victoria - except they weren't 'Chocolate' as were the ones in the window boxes. And when I read the word on her (Victoria's) blog - I pronounced it wrong (in my head) - Zantadeskya.

.

But, as Zantadeesha it sounds (as well as looks) lovely.

I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO DIE

Fatsia Japonica When Green

Something is happening to the Fatsia and the something is not good.

It's lower leaves on one side are dieing. Great slabs of yellow. On the other side of the bush they are green though. Or maybe the ones here died earlier and fell off before I noticed.

Fatsia Japonica When Yellow

I'm wondering if the Fatsia is a victim of reverse mulching. There's hardly anywhere to put twigs or tough leaves which won't compost. For bonfires, there's no space. So I hid some of them (leaves and branches) behind the Fatsia. (Horrible name!) I wish I could have bonfires. Even the word 'bonfire' conjures up smells of happiness and woodsmoke.

Maybe the rain can't get through? Or maybe it does get through but the wonder of slowly dissolving goodness brings it over all faint. Or maybe it's none of those things and it's going to die because it feels like it and relishes the thought of leaving me with a whacking great gap in an awkward place.

Meanwhile, I've been dragging aside my stache of uncompostables so I can water round its roots. And I've had to cut the bamboo back to make a way through. And I've had to do it in the morning very, very early - before anyone else gets up - so children don't notice and decide to mess around in what I like to call 'the stand' or throw Fatsia branches across the street or pull off its yellowing leaves (which come away in your hands if you touch them) so they can wave them. (The leaves.) (Not their hands.) (Well, they can wave their hands if they like but I'd rather they did it without clutching my Fatsia leaves to do it.) (Or maybe it's best that they do - for if I went into the street and found children, its length and breadth, waving empty hands at nothing in particular, I would think they'd been struck with such a horrible disease I'd wonder if I should give them Calpol*.

* 'Calpol' is like 'Hoover'.

P.S. Sorry there was no Monday Maths this week. It's because of the French Open - and it'll get worse. Wimbledom looms. Sometimes, people don't realise how seriously Martians take tennis, or how complicated it is to share a computer at this time of year.

P.P.S. Oh! I've just read an article by Helen Yemm - who says this is supposed to happen. (Fatsia's having their own autumns.) She even says it can be alarming. Well, I've been alarmed. Alarmed enough not to want any more alarms today so I'm not going to alarm myself by re-writing this post. But why does she include crocosmia in 'exotica' when it grows along ditches in the hedgerows?

P.P.P.S. Now it's Murray and Gonzales. Just posting this quick while I can.

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P.P.P.P.S. Even I like Wimbledon. (It's on grass.) (Not the whole of Wimbledon, that is.) (Just the tennis bit is.) (On grass.)

THE LOVE OF A GOOD FAMILY

My feeling is that if the wind is strong enough to blow wheelie bins onto their sides, kindly members of the family might take it as a meteorological hint that it isn't a good day for three inch high tomato plants to spend the day in the garden.

Maybe even the taller tomatoes might like a break from the gruelling process of hardening off if the wind is so strong it beats them to the ground. Perhaps, at the very least, they might be grateful for the support of one of those green sticks I bought the other day for that very purpose.

I don't know, but I take it as a given that freshly germinated seeds might like to postpone their first steps into the outside world to a day when intermittent but heavy rain showers don't beat them parallel with the fallen over tomatoes.

The Spanish Broom is beginning to look pretty flowery.

Maybe I am too sentimental, too sensitive about the plants I have nursed from seed . .. to toddler . . . to primary school age. (None are yet remotely approaching their teenage years; though one of the lupins has come out in spots. Don't know why.)

But such is the love of my family that, having seen me traipse into the garden every morning with tray upon tray of plants - they step boldly into the breach (because I had a fit on Monday afternoon and have been in bed ever since, sleeping to the radio and reading the occasional blog between dozes *) and hand them over to whatever forces are available . . . . could have been driving snow, blizzards, earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, thermometer cracking heat-waves, no-matter what . . . out they go as usual.

But I don't think the flowering broccoli was wrenched out by its roots through any such loving intention, for that was at the front of the house. Nor were the loops of clematis armandii (which I'd neatly tied along the outside of the garden wall) torn off for any other reason than . . . well what? What reason could there be?

I think Spanish Broom is Spartium Junceum

The trouble is, no sooner is one group of children too old to climb onto the wall than another lot grow big enough to pull things down from it. No sooner do those who live nearby get the idea that plants are better left in the ground, than more free ranging ones arrive to drag them from it in passing.

It reminds me of knocking on the door and running away. What's the point if you don't wait to see the expressions of surprise and annoyance on the face of a householder when they find there is no-one there?

(Didcott, who knows about such things, says you do see these expressions of surprise and annoyance if you hide behind a car on the other side of the road. Oh dear!)

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But the biggest mystery is what happens to the little plastic lids from the end of flash sticks. Perhaps they have run off with the socks?

(* Regular readers need not worry. It happens often.)

WEDNESDAY WORD

Popocatepetl

MONDAY MATHS

Always work hard

Always strive

To be the smelliest

Child alive.

Munch on onion,

Chew on chive,

5 x 9 is 45

And don't forget to visit Monica's Maths too!

DIARY ENTRY

It's all very exciting. The air is full of noise because Year Eleven students are celebrating that they are students no longer and they think being grown up means they should rush around in hordes and get drunk and shout. Liberation! There are parties and music and suddenly fireworks.

Meanwhile - I've been plodding in and out of the house with trays of plants which I don't want the slugs to eat yet and looking up at the white blobs of roses against their background of dark and indiscernible leaves and at the way street lights reflect on young vine leaves in a very romantic way and listening to the music and the shouting (which has been going on for three days now) and thinking it all feels very exciting . . . And the Spanish Broom flowers have been coming out like yellow bows and I'm enjoying how green the kitchen is now that the table and work surfaces and part of the floor are covered with trays of plants . . . but I'm not yet wanting to go to sleep even though I am tired . . . and I'm thinking this is what blogs (may be) are for (sometimes) . . . for saying . . . isn't it all very exciting!

(Even though I am not in Year Eleven.)
(Not even 'not in Year Eleven'.)
(Never have been. They didn't have Year Eleven when I was at school, they only went as far as six.)

(In Roman Numerals.)

P.S. I know I have comments to reply to . . . I'll get there . . . tomorrow. (?)

WEDNESDAY WORD

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Xylem and Phloem

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I know this is three words but, always, in my mind, they are one,

Xylem-and-phloem.

MUDDLE AND MESS

This Mallard has absolutely nothing to do with this post - I just like it.

Having read Joannne’s comment on Victoria’s post about The Chelsea Flower Show, I went over to Joanne’s blog - where I started saying so many things I rubbed them out and came back here to write a post instead.

My problem was mainly of terminology, so here are some definitions. They aren’t official descriptions. Nor are they necessarily consistent or accurate. They simply explain what I mean when I use particular words.

1.) Cottage Garden - a space of no more than an eighth of an acre packed tightly with flowers, herbs and vegetables. The flowers will be brightly coloured and include very tall ones as well as very short ones, with less emphasis on middle sized ones. These gardens are designed for the long term, with a lot of self-seeding in the flower and herb departments and lots of seed saving in the vegetable plot.

There will be narrow stone paths between different areas of planting / self seeding so the ground isn’t trodden down or young plants trodden on and access may be maintained through routes which would otherwise become impassable.

This kind of garden needs almost daily attention (even if for only a few minutes) because weeds have to be hoiked out prompt. (That is if they can find any room to get in.) It is pretty and much admired. It comes right up to the front door. It is a working garden and there may be a small space for a lawn - but there may only be room for a bench.

2.) Muddled Garden - this is my back garden. (Or, at least, the intention behind it is for it to be muddled.)

This too is densely packed but instead of the plants being side by side, they are interwoven; they climb up each other, and in and out, and round and about. Plants are organised in layers but can invade each other’s territories, indeed, they are encouraged to do so. For example . . . jasmine and nasturtiums (if they can be bothered to grow!) wind up into my very tall bay tree. Up there, where they are too high to reach, they are out of my control and get . . . in a muddle.

3.) Mess - this is my front garden. A ‘Mess of a Garden’ is where another kind of garden was intended but which has gone wrong. It isn’t a muddle, it isn’t uncared for, it isn’t neglected, it is . . . well, a mess.

The reason my front garden is a mess is twofold. (Which will have to be a.) and b.) fold because I’ve already got numbers.)

a.) I have learnt a bit late that ‘poor’ soil does not mean ‘completely useless, textureless and nutritionless’ soil. The front of my house has the useless, textureless and nutrionless type (at least, it did until I dug in leaf mould and scattered an extra dose over the top - since then, it has come on in dramatic leaps bounds and shouts so joyful they can be heard clearly ten miles away).

b.) It is a kind of botanical site of special archaeological interest. In other words, it bears the scars of eight years of trials and failures. Some things have worked - nettles, buttercups, mint, sage, blackcurrant, hollyhocks, a couple of yellow iris and a globe artichoke (at last!). But there isn’t a single plant that is in the right place. They were. They were in the right place when the plants which died were still there and hadn’t been infilled with ones which I happened to have spare, or liked, or thought might do better than the ones which died and so I bunged them in the gaps.

Last year, I read an interesting article (and I do apologise that I can no longer remember which blog it was on) where the writer was describing the difference between colour and tone. What I have landed up with in my front garden is a gathering of plants which, taken separately, are all of the same tone and texture. If one stands at a distance from them, they merge into a not very interesting blob. It’s only possible to distinguish any one from its neighbour when it flowers. After that, it blends back into obscurity.

The sage flowers are flowering at the front of the house.

Oh, c.) (which is a third reason) . . . Infilling turns out to be almost impossible. If something dies, even dies down, as daffodils do, people assume there’s a gap - but the ‘gaps’ are often where the seeds are. I’ve put poppies and marigolds there. Wild flowers that can’t fail - but do - because, without fail, they get trodden on. Either Ming wants to see why the Clematis isn’t growing, or steps across to pick some mint; or children, who have, at last, realised I am trying to grow something at the front, kindly pick their way through the visible plants by stepping on the invisible ones on their way to retrieve footballs or Action Men. So . . . I allow weeds to grow up in the gaps until the ‘proper’ seeds emerge from beneath their canopy. Only then do I pull them out. (Gently, gently!) Some, like the buttercup (maligned by many but not by me) and Shepherd’s Purse certainly look pretty while they are there. Others, the beginnings of teasel and various other noxious looking things with bristles sticking out of lumps on their leaves, whose names I don’t know . . . I chop them off and out. And willow herb . . . well, it looks very nice when it’s little but it’s alarming none the less. Leave it - and I’ll have a railway embankment landscape in no time. Remove it . . . and the ground will be stepped on.

The Lavendula Stoichas is flowering too - just my luck as it is the one I least like.

Victoria mentioned that VP is coming to visit her and that she is looking forward to picking VP’s brains. VP is coming to visit me soon too. She may or may not like my back garden. If she does, I will be delighted and proud. If she doesn’t, it won’t change my pleasure in it or the way I tend it. Some people come here and their eyes light up with delight and astonishment. I hope she will be one of those. (I think Joanne may know what that expression looks like too.) This morning my First Madame Alfred Carriere Rose opened two thirds of the way up the Spanish Broom. Another will open late today in the New Zealand Rosemary - which is in the opposite direction.

But I’m steeling myself for VP’s expression when she sees my front garden. By its nature, this is the first thing she will see, which is a bit of a bind!

I’m anticipating a smirk!

(That’s what I’d do.)

(Smirk.)

It may be a balaklava moment.

MONDAY MATHS

5 x 7 = 35

5 sevens are 35

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The ghost of Macbeth is learning to drive.

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They didn't have cars

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When he was alive.

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5 sevens are 35.

SLUGS AND MONEY

I'd like to know why none of my nasturtium seeds are coming up.

I've tried old ones.
I've tried new ones.

I've dug them out of the ground and looked at how they aren't doing anything.
I've put them back.

Should I buy more. Different ones?

On the other hand, the garden paths are filling up with trays of runner bean plants hardening off. Can't keep a good bean down, it seems.

I've transplanted the aspidistra. There are fossilised little cups with jagged rims beside the base of the stems. Fossil flowers are interesting . . . but not the same as non-fossil flowers. I wish I'd noticed when they were new.

I really do have a lot of runner beans.

The first tomato plant is in the ground. It survived the night. Half the lupins didn't. Snails, it turns out, don't like lupins. Slugs, it seems, do. Other people's slugs and snails may have different tastes. Or it may simply be that, having destroyed the curry plant completely, the slugs have been forced to eat lupins for want of anything else. Maybe the snails will join the feast tonight; having learnt from their homeless neighbours.

(Beans and tomatoes are still coming in goodly in the evenings, excellent children that they are.)

Giving money back which you never stole in the first place suggests guilt rather than propriety.

I'm feeling sorry for some M.P.s.
I couldn't run the country.
I think I'd give M.P.s who don't live in London or an adjoining county a set amount for second home living expenses and leave them to decide how to use it.
If you claim for a bus fare but walk, I'd let you keep the money.
If ever you need to borrow something - borrow from someone who is poor. A poor person will understand your need.