LAST WEEK, I MARRIED A MARTIAN

Last week, I married a Martian.

He's quite handsome really - though he thought it was funny when he examined the globe on my mantle-piece because the north pole was at the top.

It's an ornamental globe but it's got a lot of detail.

He said it was upside down. Then, he said that was a joke and that The Windward Islands should be at the top.

But I didn't know where the Windward Islands are. (I'm not sure I'd even heard of them.) So he showed me. So now I do.

. . . But I'm still not definitely sure that the Windward Islands really are at the top of Martian Maps or whether he's still joking.

Anyway . . . today I planted a hollyhock.

I planted the seed in a clay pot last spring - but the summer was so wet I never got round to planting it out.

Now, it'll have to take its chances, between slugs and frosts.

To help it on its way, I gave it a load of compost. I don't know how much good this will do because our compost is solid brandling worm.

We'll see.

My husband, by the way, is called Ming. (Well, he isn't really - but his Martian name is un-pronouncable and they don't have the same alphabet as us on Mars, so I call him Ming.)

_ _ _ _ _

For Tomorrow

..

AH!

.

The Globe Artichoke was a plant too far.

I've killed her.

(Mrs Smith.)

Esther

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For Yesterday.

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MURDER IN THE MORNING

My garden is not designed; it emerges.

I thought it was emerging quite well - what with the

Flowering Nettles

and flowering Sage;

the bright green Mint

- and Hollyhocks growing tall (with buds on);

and the one-day-it-will-be-purple Clematis,

the Marigolds and Californian Poppies;

and the Buttercups looking very sunny and cheerful;

the Dandelion too -

(which I cut around when I neaten the edge)

(well sort of).

(I mean 'sort of neaten' - 'neaten' is an imprecise word).

And, best of all, the Globe Artichoke being nearly two foot high and spreading its arms gracefully

(as if it's already the star of the show,

as if it's already dominating the stage)

embracing the black fly;

- the black fly which are gone

- the black fly which have abandoned its withered and forlorn body as coldheartedly as if it were Thomas a Becket.

I forgive the slugs - the slugs which decimated yet another tuft of chives over night. They were doing what slugs do - decimate.

That my favourite blade of grass has been flattened - well, footballs are nature.

But why, Ceres, Robert and Cadis, did you wrench the Artichoke from its place?

Why did you snap its tap root?

Why did you offer its sap to the morning sun? let the heat suck its life until it resembled nothing more than a pile of old broccoli?

Even the ants are bewildered. They are running up and down its veins - looking for . . . for . . . blackfly? Carting them elsewhere?

(Memory fades. I'm no longer sure they were blackfly.)

Watch out Dicksonia Antarctica - you're about to move to a bigger pot.

The runt of spare Artichokes will be given yours.

With careful tending, it too may have its day.

Then - I'm going to see Mrs Smith.

I've had enough of her sour milk and her weak tea and her plant wrecking, rubbish throwing, whoever-heard-of-your-stupid-little-planets-anyway children.

'Tolerance'?

Gone!

(Marjorie phoned.)

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For Yesterday

STANDING TO LOOK AT GRASS

Mrs Smith makes awful tea; weak. And the milk she put in it this morning was right on edge.

I saw her watching me, over the rim of her cup, daring me to drink it. I watched her back, over the rim of mine - and did.

* * * * *

There is one, joyous Bach-note that I listen to over and over again.

I know precisely where to place the needle on the gramaphone. I lower the arm, dash to the other side of the room - and wait. It hits me. (The note.) I go back, raise the arm, lower it, dart away - listen.

There's one blade of grass outside my window that I like above all others. I keep returning to it - admiring the way it reaches above its colleagues, its not-yet-completely-open leaf pointing straight into the morning sunshine; a maze spear in miniature.

I took Mrs Smith to see it.

Side by side, we stood on the pavement, admiring it. (At least, I was.)

Mrs Coverdale came and stood next to us. I explained about the blade of grass but she was inclined to chat. I was glad when she looked at her watch and went.

Still, Mrs Smith and I stood, side by side, looking.

Tentatively, I invited her to look at some of the others.

"They're flowering," I said. "And I didn't plant any of them, they just came - and they flowered - and there are so many different kinds of flowers - and you wouldn't have seen them if I'd pulled them out."

(The Council Mows her grass. It tried to mow mine but I put up a notice saying 'Don't!'.)

(It was massive; that notice. They couldn't have missed it - but I still had to phone the town office seven times before they agreed to leave it alone.)

"I like that," she said, pointing at a small plant with delicate white flowers.

Shepherds Purse.

I've promised to give her seed.

* * * * *

FAULTS CONFESSED: ONE

Putting the cane in the centre of the pot instead of a plant.

I mean, I do put the plant in the pot too - but not in the centre - because that's where I've put the cane.

.

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For Yesterday.

BEES, BOOKS AND ASTRONOMY

This morning, I ate breakfast in the garden.

No snails.

Just spider gossamer swinging across the path.

I watered early and did some potting-on.

* * * * *

Later, I took coffee into the garden.

And an astronomy book.

(And watched bees on the roses in between paragraphs.)

They all spin anti-clockwise (planets, that is; not bees). (Bees don't spin.)

Except Venus. (Not that Venus is a bee. Venus is a planet.)

(And Uranus (which is also a planet) stands in a class of it own because it sort of judders.)

And I've been reading about dwarf planets too.

One is Ceres.

Another is Charon.

Hmm..

* * * * *

I'm very behind with my inventories:-

Plants on the right hand side of the front door . . . . .

. . . . . trees and ferns on Pluto . . . . .

. . . . . that kind of thing.

And now I'll get even more behind because I've decided to do bark rubbings as well.

First:-
BAY

(I'm also planning to list my faults and say which plants shouldn't be grown near washing lines.)

(Tomorrow, that is.)

(One has a duty to pass on gardening wisdom to future Montgomery generations!)

(I think.)

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For Tomorrow.

For Yesterday.

MESSAGE FROM MRS RUSTBRIDGER

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THIS IS MRS RUSTBRIDGER.

I AM CONFISCATING THIS LAPTOP.

I FOUND ESTHER IN HER GARDEN, THIS MORNING, SITTING ON A BENCH NEXT TO A PILE OF DROOPY VINE SNIPPINGS AND UNABLE TO GET BACK TO THE HOUSE.

I COULD SEE HER FROM MY UPSTAIRS WINDOW.

SHE SHOULD REST AFTER A FIT.

I KNOW. I’VE BEEN HER NEIGHBOUR FOR YEARS. UNLIKE HER UPSTART HUSBAND.

SHE’S A HEADSTRONG AND ARROGANT WOMAN.

‘THEY CAN DO WITHOUT YOU!’ - THAT’S WHAT I SAY.
LET THEM READ DICKENS OR THE PEOPLE’S FRIEND.

I’LL LOOK AFTER HER GARDEN.

I’LL KEEP THE BINDWEED FROM THE BLACKCURRANTS.

I’LL TELL THAT HUSBAND OF HERS IT’S ABOUT TIME HE DUG UP HIS ONIONS AND PUT THE REST OF ESTHER’S RUNNER BEANS IN THEIR PLACE.

BUT I WON’T TOUCH THE MARE’S TAIL OR THE CLUMPS OF IRRLEVENT GRASS OR THE BUTTERCUPS OR THE CINQUE FOIL.

LAST YEAR, SHE CULTIVATED A FREE STANDING NETTLE AND INVITED US TO ADMIRE IT. I’LL REFUSE TO WATER NONSENSE LIKE THAT BUT I‘LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO ABOUT GREENFLOES ON HER HONEYSUCKLE.

SHE’LL SLEEP TILL MONDAY.

I’LL SEE TO THAT TOO!

HER HOUSE IS KNEE HIGH IN WASHING UP AND WASTE HIGH IN DUST AND THE POST HASN’T BEEN OPENED FOR DAYS.

ANOTHER THING FOR ME TO CATCH UP ON.

AS IF I HADN’T ENOUGH TO DO IN MY OWN HOUSE!

SHE’S GRATEFUL OF COURSE BUT ANXIOUS.

SHE WANTS ‘LINKS’, WHATEVER THEY ARE, TO BE PUT IN A ‘COMMENT BOX’, WHATEVER THAT IS, SO SHE KNOWS WHO VISITS WHILE SHE’S SLEEPING AND CAN POP ROUND AND SEE EVERYONE WHEN SHE WAKES UP.

NOW SHE’S MUTTERING ABOUT PLAVS LEAVING PLING ON HER PATH. SHE SAYS I’LL KNOW IT IF I SEE IT.

IF I SEE IT I’LL BIN IT WHATEVER IT IS. I CAN TELL YOU THAT.

YOURS SINCERELY

EMMELINE RUSTBRIDGER (MRS)

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BUTTERCUPS AND WARHEADS

I wish I could shrug off sexism.

Ming and the children have crisps in their lunch boxes.

Their decision - my worry.

* * * * *

Ming's chopped down the green manure on the allotment. He'll dig it in after supper.

While he works, he sings an excruciating little ditty called - "We're going to Ma's on Mars'".

(Which is all fixed up for the end of June.)

(And I'm looking forward to it!)

* * * * *

Worthing and Didcott will be spending the day riveting the noses of nuclear warheads to the long tube bits which contain the fuel.

Ming's dusting them.

(The warheads - not Worthing and Didcott.)

(And he's not dusting the warheads they're working on now - but the ones they made earlier.)

(Otherwise, he'd get in the way!)

* * * * *

There's one carrot; lots of buttercups; no beetroot; and the pumpkin's got eaten.

* * * * *

Where's Marjorie?

That's what I want to know.

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MARJORIE HAS BEEN CAPTURED BY PLUTONIANS

Marjorie has been captured by Plutonians.

They came from under the compost heap.

They came up through an inspection cover in the garden.

They came out from behind the Castor Oil plant (which turns out to be a Fatsia Japonica after all).

(I bought it from the W.I. as a very small plant.

.

You’d think they'd know better!)

They burst through the kitchen door (the Plutonians, not the W.I) and smashed through a window in the living room. (The sage got a bit trampled.)

I shouted at them.

They smiled grimly.

I shouted at Ming to ‘do something’!

He shouted back at me. “What?”

I didn’t know.

So they dragged her, kicking and screaming, into a van. Then they drove off.

(Marjorie was doing the kicking and screaming. The Plutonians were silent; professional.)

* * * * *

The boys are pleased she’s gone. It means they can go back to the room Ming slept in when he first arrived. (They’ve been downstairs on camp beds again while Marjorie’s been with us.)

* * * * *

I can’t understand it.

I keep asking Ming how people from such a beautiful place could behave so badly.

Ming looks stern and says the politics of a planet cannot be determined by its scenery.

(Then he goes into a detailed polemic about ‘Free Will’. (He does it every time.) So I day-dream about how happy I was in the Botanic Gardens (on Pluto). (Which is how I distract myself when I’m bored.) (It was so beautiful there; peaceful.))

* * * * *

I’m listening to Fascinating Aida singing ‘Batman Always Wears Tights’ on the record player.

The Lilly of the Valley has one flower; the nettles have lots.

It’s raining.

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'CUTTING OFF THE DEAD BITS'

‘Cutting off the dead bits’?

What ‘dead bits’?

There aren’t any ‘dead bits’ in the garden. Not this time of year!

But it wasn’t too bad.

Worthing had put down saucers of lettuce for slugs.

And Didcott had watered seedlings in the rain.

But dead-heading roses was helpful.

Trimming the Windmill Palm - less so. It looks all sticky-outy now. And the neat-angled scissor-
cuts will go harsh and brown.

I liked its frayed and tatty grace. I liked it how it was!

Worthing has pulled out bamboo stakes. There wasn’t one left. (‘Dead.’)

And Didcott has taken rose prunings away from the Olive Tree. (Dead.)

“Sometimes,” I explained. “‘Dead’ is useful.”

They looked blank.When they set off for work I chased after them and called them back so I could give bigger hugs and better thanks.

Then I washed up the saucers and replaced the stakes.

Marjorie has arranged to meet with the second-in-charge on the M.O.D. bus. She says it’s about time someone makes a stand against Pluto and, if it has to be her on her own - then - so be it.

“What about that lot down the street?” Ming asked.

I began to say they weren’t too bad at present. At least, they’d left the clover alone since it started to flower.

That wasn’t what he meant.

“Sharon,” he said, “Sharon, not Clover.”

What?

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ROSES AFTER A FIT

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I DON’T LIKE ROSES

I’m in bed.

The window is open.

Twenty feet from my nose - the topmost branches of a Rambling Rector.

I hold my breathe; not believing every next intake will bring more scent.

But it doesn’t run out. It’s crossing the street. It’s stopping passers by - it’s June - and there’s endless blackbird.

* * * * *

Cluster upon cluster of small, white, yellow-centred, single flowers - densely packed on kraken-length stems.

Half inch thorns.

It’s gone over the arch; over the bushes; over the gate; over the fence into Lucy’s garden.

It’s ripping its way through the shed roof.

But it can’t get me!

* * * * *

I don’t like Roses.

This can’t be a rose.

* * * * *

FRIDAY:-

I was about to re-draw the apple-tree; pastels, paper, paint and brushes spread ready across the table.

Ming and the children set out for a walk.

Peace coming.

Concentration looming.

I’m restless for it.

I stand at the door calling out, ‘Goodbye’. ‘Enjoy your ice-creams!’

* * * * *

Suddenly, I’ve vanished (it must have been funny from the outside) - keeled over sideways, out of sight, onto the stairs.

There’s a slightly uncomprehending pause.

Then they all come back - where have I gone?

They try to drag me out of the way of the door.

My feet and ankles get stuck.

Ming pulls me further up the stairs.

Didcott tries to hold my hand.

It’s a tug of war.

Worthing gets cross.

I can hear.

I can feel.

But I can’t speak. Can’t move.

My eyelids have flopped - along with the rest of me - so I can’t see.

I like to be boss - in charge. So I’m shouting ‘Do this, do that!’ - but they can’t hear - my voice stays in my head; my lips won’t move.

I’m wild with frustration.

* * * * *

Three days in bed; sleeping, dozing, reading, wandering through the internet (with comments).

The family runs round at my bidding, brings me cups of tea, shops, argues, reads to me, brings me treats; meals.

Not bad eh!?

Ming, Didcott, Worthing, The Rambling Rector - luxury!

* * * * *

(Actually, just at this minute, they’re all shouting at each other. I’m not there to tell them to stop!)

(Well, the Rambling Rector’s not shouting. It’s bobbing around happily - outside the window.)

(I’ll concentrate on that.)

_ _ _ _

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For Tomorrow

MY MUM HAS HAD ANOTHER FIT SO I'M DOING HER POST FOR HER - BY WORTHING

THIS IS WHERE MUM PUTS HER POTS OF PLANTS UNTIL THEY ARE READY TO BE PUT IN THE GROUND

THIS IS OUR DUSTBIN. WE HAVE TO FIGHT OFF THE RAMBLING RECTOR WHENEVER WE WANT TO PUT ANYTHING IN IT. THERE IS A LAVENDER BUSH BESIDE IT AND SOME IVY UNDER IT.

THIS IS A METAL POLE WITH A METAL BIRD ON.

MY MUM DOESN'T LIKE GARDEN ORNAMENTS. SHE SAYS SHE WILL TIE THE HOLLYHOCK TO IT WHEN IT GETS BIGGER SO IT DOESN'T FALL OVER AND SO THE BIRD DOESN'T SHOW.

ME AND DIDCOTT LIKE THE BIRD.

I THOUGHT I WOULD MAKE THE PICTURE BLUE.

THIS IS LOOKING AT OUR LIVING ROOM WINDOW FROM THE OUTSIDE. I STRETCHED THE PICTURE TO MAKE IT WIDER BUT IT'S MADE THE PLANTS LOOK WONKY. THEY AREN'T REALLY

THIS IS OUR SHED. MUM SAYS, WHEN WE ARE RICH, WE WILL HAVE A SHED EACH AS WELL AS ONE FOR GARDEN THINGS.

THIS IS AN IMPRESSION OF THE GARDEN. IT HAS LOTS OF LEAVES IN IT. I'VE STRETCHED THIS PICTURE TOO SO IT LOOKS AS IF THE WIND IS BLOWING.

I'VE PUT THIS IN AGAIN BECAUSE I LIKE IT.

I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO PUT THE SHED IN FOR A SECOND TIME TOO BUT MUM SAYS 'THE BLOG SHOULD GO UP'

(I HOPE YOU LIKE MY PICTURES)

WORTHING

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VEGETABLES AND FLOWER POTS

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Perhaps Ming is right. Slugs prefer the next allotment along. His Jerusalem Artichokes are high and healthy. His chard is glossy and green. Soon the broad beans will be ready. (Yuch!)

The onions are small (but sweet) - and the runner beans uneaten.

The things we bought at the Garden Centre on Sunday have arrived.

Two large flower pots.

Four bags of John Innes Number 3.

And some Cotswold Stone Chippings.

We couldn't afford more.

Right to the last minute, our minds were open.

I was at the cash till. The man at the checkout was waiting for money. I ran to Ming (who was mulling over tomato feed and pretending this wasn't happening).

I could put everything back, I said. I'd try not to be grief stricken when every single one of the tomato plants went to the allotment (potless). I wouldn't gaze miserably at bald patches in paths (not when he was looking). Really!

He gulped - and was generous.

(The wages of cleaners are horribly low!)

So - now - we have one very regal tomato plant in a very big pot by the kitchen door - and one pumpkin in a slightly less big pot beside the hollyhocks.

That's the end of space.

* * * * *

Thanks to everyone who waved!

Ming's mum said she saw someone with dark hair and two legs.

* * * * *

Tomorrow, I shall continue the inventory of plants to the right hand side of my front door.

_ _ _ _ _

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MIDDAY APPROACHES - START WAVING!

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Ming's Mum will be watching from Mars at Midday.

* * * * *

BUT -

When is Midday?

(Australia alone has several.)

We used to have quite a few ourselves - but railway timetablers couldn't cope - which is why we 'Do-Noon-Together' now. (London time.)

(It causes resentment.)

(An individual's politics can be detected by the way he or she aligns a sundial!)

I'd quite like to set 'Midday' by 'Dorchester Time'.

But if everyone in the world waves at once - Ming's Mum will miss people on the other side of the planet. (The earth would get in the way.)

Therefore:-

Let every waver plant an upright stick in the ground.

When it casts no shadow -
jump up and down, fling your arms around and shout Yoohoo!

Ming's Mum will be pleased with this arrangement - she won't need to calibrate her telescope or set its tracking device.

She can start with us - and watch everyone else as they come round waving.

(Unless the earth's going in the other direction, in which case, they'll have gone in before she sees them.)

(Come to think of it - if "Where-she-lives-on-Mars" is facing away from Earth when it's Midday in Dorchester - she'll see space instead of us.)

(Or - sea if Dorchester is obscured by the Pacific.)

(Ming's right. I would have done better if Astronomy were given more prominence in the school curriculum.)

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MORE ABOUT WAVING

In the Second World War, the Ministry of Information (or something along those lines) made a series of films to help GIs understand the British.

(The English in particular.)

I remember a lingering shot of a tall hedge with a garden gate set into it.

This, said the voice-over, might puzzle visiting Americans - until they understand tall hedges are a reaction to overcrowding. If we didn't grow protective barriers, we might be pushed off the edges of the country and into the sea. (We might even be forced to speak!)

* * * * *

The atmosphere on Mars is very thin. Sound doesn't travel. Someone talking loudly may be heard two inches away - but that's it.

Semaphore might have been useful but Mind-To-Mind communication was developed instead - so waving has fallen out of use.

* * * * *

Ming had to watch a lot of Ealing Studios films as part of his 'Class and Caste' Course.

His mum loves them.

She's charmed by humans jumping up and down, flapping both arms in the air and shouting 'Yoo Hoo' - from a long way off.

And now - excitement of excitement - at least one human is willing to wave to her - TO HER! TO HER! - She's thrilled!

* * * * *

INSTRUCTIONS WILL FOLLOW - TOMORROW!

* * * * *

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SCALE ON THE BAY - AND VICTORIA WAVING

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This is the shape of my Bay Tree. (A Golden Bay.)

(I was given it (in a pot) as a housewarming present fifteen years ago. The bay was nine inches tall and I lived in a flat.)

(Lucky I moved!)

And it's so tall, I'll have to draw it in sections.

THE TRUNKS

(The first branch is about five foot from the ground.)

THE MIDDLE

(The branches are cut back on one side so we can open the shed door. On the other, the lower ones are sawn off completely, making a one-sided arch we can walk under (about six foot high).)

THE TOP

(I am eye-level with the uppermost leaves when I look out of a first-floor window.)

Disaster may be striking.

Scale insects have arrived on the trunks.

They are a quarter of an inch long and shaped like shield bugs.

Each one sits separately on a tall white cushion - the cocoon of a single maggot.

They (the scales) are the same colour as the edges of brown crisps that have gone wrong. (Same texture too.)

I noticed them yesterday.

I'm planning murder.

Unless someone tells me not to, I'll scrape them off.

* * * * *

Victoria has been watching my mother-in-law through a telescope and is thinking she might wave.

Which arm should she use?

Ming's worried.

Why was his mum not in her cave?

(Martians are troglodytes.)

The M.O.D closes for ten days towards the end of June - Ming thinks we ought to visit her then and check she's ok.

(His mum.)

(Not Victoria.)

(!)

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THE THEORY OF VARIABILITY

.

It rained in the night. A little stream of droplets now drips from the toe end of every sock I left on the line.

* * * * *

THE THEORY OF VARIABILITY: PART ONE

Ming says I won't understand what's going on - until I understand The Theory of Variability.

(He's shocked by the way children in primary education are not taught astro-physics and philosophy.)

LESSON ONE

Martian maps are drawn on elasticated paper. This, says Ming, is because distance is variable.

Humans think our house is two-hundred yards from the corner of the street - but this is an average.

For the street is constantly pulsating (vibrating at the very least). Occasionally, parts of it spring (yo-yo like) away from themselves and return before we have noticed.

(The movement can be detected on Martian time-lapse cameras which take several thousand images a second.)

* * * * *

(I'm wondering whether I've been blaming too much on slugs. Maybe small plants simply fall off the garden as it pings around the universe?)

_ _ _ _ _

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AN OUTBREAK OF ADVERBS

LAST MONDAY

I'm no good as a gangster.

I swaggered into that Manchester bookshop - tough talk ready - looked at the bookseller - - - and stalled.

In fearful silence I approached the counter, unscrewed the flower press - and laid the fern bare.

Marjorie looked at it (in silence)

bent down behind the counter (in silence)

took a large, flat, wooden box from a shelf below - (the kind expensive cigars come in (only wider)) (in silence)

laid it on the counter (in silence)

and opened it (in silence).

There, arranged neatly in rows, were yellow Plutonian Fern Fronds (pressed) with a pressed geranium flower beside every one.

She looked at me (fearfully).

I looked at her (puzzledly).

She locked the shop (still silently) and we left by the 'staff entrance' (quickly).

In a back street that was even 'backer' than the one I'd come in by, there is a coffee shop.

Good.

_ _ _ _ _

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THE WORLD'S IN A NAME

.

Indian sweets are (very) sweet.

Colourful too.

And the ones which aren't colourful look interesting - which is almost as good.

The jalebi had gone soggy by the time I served them for pudding - on Wednesday.

The burfi were fine.

(The chauffeur liked them anyway.)

Marjorie was indifferent.

(I suppose she's used to them.)

* * * * *

So, there we were.

Three Martians.

Two half humans.

Me.

- eating sweets and planning to save the world from death and destruction - when the doorbell rang.

Ceres, Robert, Caddis and their Mum had come to show us the baby.

* * * * *

Marjorie wasn't interested but the chauffeur was polite - he stroked the baby's head.

Worthing and Didcott hung back; bored.

Ming offered them a cup of tea and put the kettle on.

"What's she called?" he asked, swishing warm water round in the pot.

"Sharon."

(It was Ceres who said this - proudly.)

Ming dropped the pot.

The chauffeur ran from the house.

Marjorie leapt to her feet and her chair clattered back against the dresser (which startled me).

Worthing and Didcott froze.

The mother of Sharon, Robert, Ceres and Caddis smiled a soft, soft smile.

Then they went home.

* * * * *

The parsley has whitefly.

_ _ _ _ _

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For Tomorrow

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THE COLLAPSIBLE ROOF

Shade.

I can't take sun.

My head hurts. My skin prickles. I go weak at the knees.

So, having made a shadow with the shed, I set about making a roof with a vine.

(Eight years ago.)

Madeleine d'Angevine.

Oh!

I thought Angevine was a place in France. Somewhere southern, hot and romantic.

Now, I realise! - It must be the Vine of the Angelic Madeleine - delicate - and ethereal.

But 'ethereal' it is not.

It's tough; easy to come by; and easy to grow.

This, I thought, would make a perfect roof for my 'bower'.

(Can't stop grinning. I'm not a 'bowery' person.)

(Oh! I've just looked it up. 'Bowery' doesn't mean 'someone who sits around languishing in bowers'. It's 'Farm' (in Old Dutch).

I can milk cows and I like Wellington boots. Perhaps I'm a 'bowery' person after all!)

Anyway - I planted my vine against an east facing wall - next to the bench which runs along the north side of the shed. Then I rigged up a network of washing lines to support it - and waited for my roof to grow.

It took hardly any time. By the third summer, it was sufficiently established for a deep canopy of leaves to weave itself across the garden.

It even grew grapes.

(I had to bend my head sideways when I went to sit down.)

In the autumn (or spring - depending on advice) I pruned it back to three strands - but it replenished itself with enthusiasm and panache. I would have had to work hard, non-stop, to hold it back.

By the fourth year, new growth was long and strong and multi-pronged.

Brilliant!


Then the washing lines gave way.

My 'roof' collapsed.

It took days and days to strip off the leaves (for compost) and cut the green twigs into three inch sticks.

(I didn't know what to do with the bigger branches so I hid them behind the Castor Oil plant.)

(And three inches turned out to be too long. The worms refused to chew.)

Oh! Angevine has nothing to do with Angels. It turns out to mean 'From Anjou'.

(Anjou is in the North of France.)

(Bother.)

Double bother. I was going to say what happened on Wednesday evening.

(Triple bother. The Castor Oil plant turns out not to be a Castor Oil plant after all - and I'm waiting for Helen to 'phone back and tell me what it is. (She's got one too.)).

Ah! P.S.

Thanks VP - it's a Fatsia Japonica - which means it doesn't have red flowers and it isn't poinsonous.

It has white flowers (like onion flowers) (when it's the right time for flowers) (which isn't now)and clusters of large round black berries sticking out on stalks. (Which are there now.) (They've been there for a couple of months).

I like to pretend it's a fig tree because the leaves are fig-tree-like.

I have two vines and one olive tree. To have a fig would complete the imagery of peace and comfort and un-excessive plenty.

_ _ _ _ _

For earlier posts, click here, or on the blue barrow at the top of the sidebar.

For Tomorrow

IF YOU LOOK IN THE SIDEBAR - YOU'LL SEE MY 'AWARD'!

There was no garden, when I moved here. Just an empty space and some shrunken squares of turf - ending in a jagged line where the builder got bored and went away.

It was hot; that summer. I positioned the shed on a West/East line - placed a bench along the North side - and sat in its shade.

I've looked at the sheds on Shedworking, from time to time.

None of them look like mine.

.

But Shedworking has won a 'Fork'nMonkey' Blog Award so I've given my shed an honorary medal.


For other winners (including Esther in the Garden) - see sidebar . . . . . . .


And here is a P.S.

Nancy (at 'Nancy's Garden Spot') has offered to send a home-made present to the first three people to ask - on condition that those three themselves offer to make a home-made present for three of their own blog readers.

I've taken her up on this.

. . . . Which means all I have to do now is to ask if any three people reading 'Esther in the Garden' would like me to make them a (small) home-made present and send it to them.

(?)

If so - sign up below (in the 'Comments').

(!)

(I won't be checking to see if you offer to make presents for three people!)

Esther

For earlier posts, click here, or on the blue barrow at the top of the sidebar.

For Tomorrow