FOSSILISED ROSES AND THE RUNNER BEAN RACE

I've picked a rose.

It sits (with petals distorted and stunted and crumpled in on themselves) in a glass tumbler in the kitchen.

(Next to the Bleeding Bowls.)

Short stemmed.

These ones (Madame Alfred Carriere) usually fall apart in an afternoon.

But this - it simply 'exists'. Nothing droops. Nothing drops. It's an 'immobile' rose.

Mrs Rustbridger called round; looking for tea.

Her roses are distorted.

Her roses have Blackspot.

Mine don't.

(Ha!)

It's the wind.

Blackspot is irrelevant.

The buds are fossilised.

(Hope the Rambling Rector isn't a fossil too!)

* * * * *

Miss Martin came round - for Ming.

Ming was at school.

I showed her my runner beans.

(They are healthy. Inspiring.)

(Some already need canes!)

Then I showed her the ones planted according to her instructions (ha!) - row upon row of empty looking pots.

"What's the point," I asked (bitterly) of having them sit outside the door; in the way; in the cold; doing nothing - when I could have put them in the airing cupboard?"

She told me not to worry. They'll come up 'in the end'.

. . . . . Meanwhile . . .

Ming arrived home from school.

He looked at her and ran upstairs to change.

Miss Martin left.

Abruptly.

(I thought.)

I followed her to the door.

Her chauffeur was waiting in the car outside.

He raised an eyebrow in a friendly way and Ming waved from an upstairs window.

(?)

* * * * *

The Globe Artichoke plants are doing fine.

They are tough.

They are strong.

They are unblemished and green.

Thriving.

This morning, I asked Ming if he is really male.

He laughed - and asked how I could possibly doubt it!

"On Mars," he added, "we don't approach gender as you earth-people do."

Then he smiled again.

Oh.

The parsley doesn't seem to be getting anywhere

_____

For Tomorrow