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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For Tomorrow

VEGETABLES AND FLOWER POTS

.

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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For Tomorrow

MIDDAY APPROACHES - START WAVING!

.

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

.

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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For Tomorrow

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

.

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.

_ _ _ _ _

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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

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For Tomorrow

PROBABALY THE MOST BORING PLANT IN THE WORLD - THE RAMBLING RECTOR - THE BOOKSHOP LADY - AND THE BROOM

I’ve had to bring her home - the bookshop lady; poor thing.

Ming doesn’t seem surprised. I think he knew it would happen.

But if I hadn’t gone to Manchester, I wouldn’t have understood.

And I wouldn’t have bought her a train ticket before I knew she'd be coming.

And I wouldn’t have wanted her to come - unless I had gone.

Which I did.

So it’s worked out fine after all.

(Well, not exactly ‘fine’ - but it will in the end.)

(I hope.)

(For the future of our world is at stake.)

* * * * *

Ming’s stuck an awful plant in the garden.

It’s about two foot high and two foot wide - with sparsely clad thin twigs arranged stiffly at inelegant angles. Its leaves are small and dark and dull. There should be thorns - but it seems to have lost them.

Ming says he ‘got it off’ some council workers who were ‘landscaping’ (ha!) a roundabout. They’d filled the available space - so they didn’t need it - and couldn’t be bothered to take it back to the depot - but they said it’s good ground cover and needs little care.

(Which is all it will get!)

Ming says it reminds him of a guinea pig he had as a child.

(They must have some very odd guinea pigs on Mars.)

The bookshop woman's called Marjorie.

She's very nice.

* * * * *

In the two days I’ve been away, the garden has lurched from Spring into early summer.

Snails are mating.

Convolvulus is at the top of the currant bushes (again).

(If Hitchcock had been a gardener, he wouldn’t have bothered with 'Birds'.
‘Bindweed - The Movie’
Would have been made instead.)

Flowers on the Spanish Broom are coming out; starting at the top and working down.

The first Rambling Rector Roses have opened; one here, one there; mostly in strange places - like underneath leaves.

Didcott and Worthing have grown during my absence. They are now sixteen and have jobs in the Riveting Department at the M.O.D..

Marigolds have come up - which is encouraging. (Calendulas.) (Not Tagetes.)

Californian Poppies too.

* * * * *

I'm going to start some new tomato plants.

For Tomorrow

MESSAGE FROM MING

For Tomorrow

NOTES ON THE KITCHEN TABLE

Air - chill

Sun - stings

Every leaf; every vein in every leaf - distinct.

It will rain.






For Tomorrow

THE PLANNING STAGE

.

I’ve been imagining this:-

Manchester.

A bookshop.

Me.

“If, once more, you charge £5,000 for botanical books I’ve not bought,” (I’m saying this in a tough, gangsterish voice) “I’ll go to the police.”

The woman behind the counter pales. Shrinks into her suit.

“Pressed geranium flowers,” I whisper (menacingly).

She’ll send no more. (I can tell by the way she clutches fearfully at her beads.)

I leave.

Oh! Very likely!

Truth is as floppy as a Spider Plant leaf.

As squashy as a ripe persimmon.

But with invisible threads (like a prickly pear) - and the skin slicing power of grass.

The bookselling woman would ‘sing’ about Ming.

Identity - uncertain.

Papers - forged.

Date of birth - unknown.

The police wouldn’t look for Algerian Goths.

(In Dorchester.)

They’d soon find out where we live.

We’d run.

But where?

Not Mars!

(No air!)

I need a lie.

A good one.

Believable.

Bad . . . . . .

She steals books from the British Library and sells them in brown-paper covers?

Her cleaning lady is paid a pittance?

Both?

Does she drink while she drives?

Take drugs?

Grow them?

Plants . . . . . .
Ferns . . . . . .
Pluto . . . . . .

Hmm.

Flower power?

. . . . . . Might be worth a try.

For Tomorrow

BAY TREES - AND BLACKMAIL - (EVEN MORE THAN BEFORE!)

I’ve been sitting in bed, watching rain.

Watching the bay tree too.

Upright. Still. Doing nothing.

(Either of us.)

Me and the Bay Tree.

(The Bay Tree and me.)

Inactivity should be boring. It isn’t. I’m mesmerised by its greenness; by the golden yellow of new growth.

There’s a snail at the top of the Spanish Broom. I’m companionable with it.

Blue Tits come and go. And sparrows. They’re busy - too busy for Saturday.

For once, I prefer the snail.

* * * * *

The house is silent.

The street is silent.

Even the rain falls without sound.

* * * * *

Earlier, when I went to make tea - I pulled convolvulus away from the currant bushes.

(While I waited for the kettle to boil.)

I was hoping Mrs Rustbridger was seeing me. I’d very much like her to say something nice.

I wish I didn’t.

* * * * *

Three pressed geranium flowers arrived in the post.

(At weekends, just when you’d expect postal workers to sleep in - they deliver the mail before breakfast. Other days, it's not till noon.)

* * * * *

Blackmail works on Plutonians.

Maybe it would work on the Manchester Bookseller?

'Around the World Looking at Yellow Geraniums' shouldn’t cost £5,000, however good it is.

There’s something fishy about all this.

Perhaps I’ll visit her on Monday; see what I can do.

I’ll buy Indian treats from the Wilmslow Road - with real silver on!

I’ll serve them as pudding - on Wednesday - when the chauffeur comes.

* * * * *

SHOPPING LIST

Bread
Milk
Butter
Eggs
Self-raising Flour

For Tomorrow

OH! LET THE HERBIVORES EAT THE PLANTS IF THEY WANT!

.

The National Convention of Snails was held in my garden, this morning.

Effort eluded me.

I left them.

I’ve a cold.

Can’t be bothered to move.

Couldn’t catch a snail if I tried.

And snails - snails they can’t half leg it!

Under-rated as racers; snails are.

I pluck them from walls.

Detach them from gravel.

Tug them from leaves.

Lift them from the soil.

Then, while I’m pretending not to be frightened of slugs and I’m bending round the garden, bravely scooping them onto my trowel - while I’m doing that - half the snails have got out of the bucket and are careering back to finish their breakfasts.

Even on our way to the waste-ground - they keep clambering out.

Briefly, I let go of the jacket with the broken zip that I’m clutching round my chest (to conceal my nightwear) and knock them back in.

Then I go into my tipping and shaking and flinging routine, stopping now and then to say ‘Good Morning’ to dog-walkers.

Today - today I simply couldn’t do it.

I looked at the Sage instead and pretended it was Lavender.

If it were taller. If the flowers were smaller and more densely packed along the spike - and closer to blue than to purple. If the leaves were narrower; less mottled; smelled better and weren't hairy . If it were later in the year - they might be lavender.

Then I would like them.

* * * * *

Ming’s taken my runner beans to the allotment.

I’ve tried to say he should leave them till the ground has dried a little; get a head start with slug traps - put the plants in later.

He says there aren’t slugs on the allotment. Slugs prefer the next one along.

(!)

He’s says he’s invited Miss Martin’s chauffeur to supper next week.

(We may not be talking by then.)

There’s a blue-tit bouncing on the broom tree.

The Lilly of the Valley have started to grow.

The bean plants are growing tall.
They can’t stay in pots for ever.

(I’ve bidden them a fond farewell.)





For Tomorrow

ROOTS

Roots balance trees.

Like keels.

You never see carrots flying round the garden in a gale!

After the hurricane, fallen trees became climbing frames.
(Until they were cleared away.)We could see them - immense, sideways mirrors of branches.

Exposed Beech roots are like tough lace.
Roses grow shallow.

* * * * *

Trees on Pluto are sort of broad-trunked broad beans - or tall, tall clover - with nodules in their roots.

(For fixing nitrogen.)

Plants and bushes thrive in their shade.
(They don't mind that it's dry.)
(Earth's different.)

For Tomorrow