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.
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