It's a week later, everything is still standing. There's a terrible smell in the porch. A stray cat has got in and decided to make the place his own, so it's out with the bleach, all round the doorway and floor, shifting pots and cleaning underneath. Now it smells like a hospital and the malviscus doesn't like it. I do my Sunday feeding and watering and it reluctantly perks up a bit, but it still looks like a bunch of green hankies on washing day. I hope it gets over its sulk before my Beloved gets home.
A lone seed has germinated in the propagator this week. It was half an inch tall when I noticed it. It's only been in there for 2 years so it's time it did something. Neither of us can recall what we originally sowed. Texted my Beloved excitedly. 'What does it look like?' 'Small with two round leaves.' Now it is a bit taller but still looks basically the same. I text an update. This is apparently excellent news. When I look back at it to make sure it hasn't died in the meantime (no good at seeds, remember) it seems to have grown an extra bit that looks like a tentacle. A sort of one-legged octopus. I suspect this is one of the multitude of scrambling plants that in my ignorance I lump in the category of Peas. I'm good at peas. Only this will be an exotic one with red flowers, if I can only keep it going.
But good news, the clivia is in flower. It must be nearly May, when the sun gets in at just the right angle and all at once the corner of the living room glows pinky-orange and stays that way all summer. This plant is huge and would proudly grace the window of any posh Chinese restaurant. We call it Maureen.
Out in the garden I start weeding, so that there is somewhere to put the mixed garden perennials when they are big enough, which they nearly are. This is hard going, as our garden is mostly lumps of brickwork from the original building which stood on this site covered with a grudging layer of poor topsoil. Dandelions and bindweed love it, and so do sycamore seedlings, but everything else has a struggle, especially as we have some very voracious slugs in residence. Still, after much digging and tugging I manage to clear a respectable space near the front gate where everyone will see it (and hopefully not walk all over it) on their way in. This will look beautiful in the summer but now it just looks muddy, and there is a cat digging experimental holes in it. I have some handmade compost to add, but it's cold and windy and I haven't the heart for lugging barrowloads round the garden today. I'll devote Thursday to that job. Time for tea.
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Sunday, 8 April 2012
I'll just leave it to you then...
This was my Beloved's parting shot as he disappeared back to his oil rig, leaving me with an array of pots bursting with precious plants, each with different habits and menu preferences. Like being left in charge of a hotel really.
I'm no good at plants!' I wailed. 'They die!'
'You're perfectly good at plants,' came the confident reply. 'It's just seedlings you're not good at.'
List of things to do:
1. Put sweet peas in bigger pot. Only touch the leaves or they will die.
2. Transplant the seedlings into something bigger, till they are twice their size, then harden off and plant out. Only touch the leaves or they will die.
3. Plant chinodoxas out. These are bulbs which have finished flowering and therefore easy.
4. Tie in the branches of the malviscus.
Hmmmm. What's first on the list? Sweet peas. I have a bigger pot. I have half a carrier bag of rotted horse poo which has to go in the bottom. Cover the hole first. Check. Compost? It's Easter Sunday and all the shops are shut. Maybe the 99p shop is open. I'll just dash into town while it's not raining. 99p shop closed. £1 shop closed. Town centre full of wierdos with nothing better to do on Easter Sunday than wander about looking sinister. Get back to find my local hardware store has just opened and is willing to sell me a bag of compost for about a million pounds.
So I add the compost to the horse poo and then consider the sweet peas. They are about ten inches tall, as thick as dental floss and hanging on for dear life to a tripod arrangement of twigs. Only touching the leaves is going to be a challenge. Carefully, with a tablespoon (I wish I had some of those useful forks and spades for pots which I once dismissed as mere trendy designerware) I dig round the roots, and up they come in a bunch, still attached to their twigs. Holding my breath I separate them. They are like spiders' webs, clinging on to each other. I hear worrying snapping sounds. Eventually I get them all separated and prised from their twiggy supports. Now to replant.
Ever tried planting a sweet pea seedling, which has the rigidness of overcooked spaghetti, holding it only by the leaves? Well, we get there in the end with no damage to the roots, although the plants are swooning away like tightly-laced maiden aunts. A new framework is erected from bits of withy, which they ignore, so I leave them to rest and start on item 2.
I've found something bigger for the seedlings. Not all of them need moving, only those which are crowding each other out. I don't remember what they are. Browsing through the seed catalogue at Christmas time I had chosen the plants I liked, which were lovingly bought for me. They arrived in plain white envelopes bearing only their scientific names which mean nothing to me, and my Beloved who knows everything is now far, far away. Well, time will tell, if I can only keep them alive.
The something bigger is nearly big enough. Using a tiny fork I gently lift them out and into their new bed, touching only the leaves. I'm proud of this. They may be a little close together, but it's not for long. They feel a need to swoon as well, so I leave them to it and think about the chinodoxas.
The trouble with plantsmen is that they are fantastic at growing plants but useless at weeding. I have to clear a space in the garden first. I'm glad of the rain now because I can pull the weeds out easily. Bulbs in. See you next year.
Now for the biggie. It grows in our porch because it's unhappy indoors and too tender to go outside. In the porch it is very happy and has grown so big we have to edge round it to get out. Any day now we will have a fireman on the doorstep telling us to move it. So I have to somehow truss it up without squashing any of the glorious red flowers which are popping out almost as I look at it. Now we did this last year, but there were two of us, one to lift the branches and one to wrap. There's only one of me, and the plant - who knows what's coming - has decided not to cooperate. Luckily there are no neighbours about to witness me doing a strange, cramped solo maypole dance to the accompaniment of unladylike curses.
Time to clear up. My Beloved can clear up his potting mess in seconds using only a damp paper towel, leaving all surfaces clean and sparkling. Not me. There are footprints everywhere, black smears on everything and the floor is littered with leaves. Here comes the cat, looking for somewhere dry to dig a hole. Not in my plant pots, thank you. She mutters something and stalks off, leaving a trail of black pawprints. I wash, I wipe. There is soil in places I haven't been. At last I decide I have done all I can; it's not perfect but it will do.
But look, the swooning sweet peas have picked themselves up and are investigating the withy sticks. And the transplanted seedlings are getting to their feet and looking up at the sky. Nothing's died.
Time for tea, I think.
I'm no good at plants!' I wailed. 'They die!'
'You're perfectly good at plants,' came the confident reply. 'It's just seedlings you're not good at.'
List of things to do:
1. Put sweet peas in bigger pot. Only touch the leaves or they will die.
2. Transplant the seedlings into something bigger, till they are twice their size, then harden off and plant out. Only touch the leaves or they will die.
3. Plant chinodoxas out. These are bulbs which have finished flowering and therefore easy.
4. Tie in the branches of the malviscus.
Hmmmm. What's first on the list? Sweet peas. I have a bigger pot. I have half a carrier bag of rotted horse poo which has to go in the bottom. Cover the hole first. Check. Compost? It's Easter Sunday and all the shops are shut. Maybe the 99p shop is open. I'll just dash into town while it's not raining. 99p shop closed. £1 shop closed. Town centre full of wierdos with nothing better to do on Easter Sunday than wander about looking sinister. Get back to find my local hardware store has just opened and is willing to sell me a bag of compost for about a million pounds.
So I add the compost to the horse poo and then consider the sweet peas. They are about ten inches tall, as thick as dental floss and hanging on for dear life to a tripod arrangement of twigs. Only touching the leaves is going to be a challenge. Carefully, with a tablespoon (I wish I had some of those useful forks and spades for pots which I once dismissed as mere trendy designerware) I dig round the roots, and up they come in a bunch, still attached to their twigs. Holding my breath I separate them. They are like spiders' webs, clinging on to each other. I hear worrying snapping sounds. Eventually I get them all separated and prised from their twiggy supports. Now to replant.
Ever tried planting a sweet pea seedling, which has the rigidness of overcooked spaghetti, holding it only by the leaves? Well, we get there in the end with no damage to the roots, although the plants are swooning away like tightly-laced maiden aunts. A new framework is erected from bits of withy, which they ignore, so I leave them to rest and start on item 2.
I've found something bigger for the seedlings. Not all of them need moving, only those which are crowding each other out. I don't remember what they are. Browsing through the seed catalogue at Christmas time I had chosen the plants I liked, which were lovingly bought for me. They arrived in plain white envelopes bearing only their scientific names which mean nothing to me, and my Beloved who knows everything is now far, far away. Well, time will tell, if I can only keep them alive.
The something bigger is nearly big enough. Using a tiny fork I gently lift them out and into their new bed, touching only the leaves. I'm proud of this. They may be a little close together, but it's not for long. They feel a need to swoon as well, so I leave them to it and think about the chinodoxas.
The trouble with plantsmen is that they are fantastic at growing plants but useless at weeding. I have to clear a space in the garden first. I'm glad of the rain now because I can pull the weeds out easily. Bulbs in. See you next year.
Now for the biggie. It grows in our porch because it's unhappy indoors and too tender to go outside. In the porch it is very happy and has grown so big we have to edge round it to get out. Any day now we will have a fireman on the doorstep telling us to move it. So I have to somehow truss it up without squashing any of the glorious red flowers which are popping out almost as I look at it. Now we did this last year, but there were two of us, one to lift the branches and one to wrap. There's only one of me, and the plant - who knows what's coming - has decided not to cooperate. Luckily there are no neighbours about to witness me doing a strange, cramped solo maypole dance to the accompaniment of unladylike curses.
Time to clear up. My Beloved can clear up his potting mess in seconds using only a damp paper towel, leaving all surfaces clean and sparkling. Not me. There are footprints everywhere, black smears on everything and the floor is littered with leaves. Here comes the cat, looking for somewhere dry to dig a hole. Not in my plant pots, thank you. She mutters something and stalks off, leaving a trail of black pawprints. I wash, I wipe. There is soil in places I haven't been. At last I decide I have done all I can; it's not perfect but it will do.
But look, the swooning sweet peas have picked themselves up and are investigating the withy sticks. And the transplanted seedlings are getting to their feet and looking up at the sky. Nothing's died.
Time for tea, I think.
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