esther in the garden

LAST WEEK, I MARRIED A MARTIAN

2011-02-17T10:20:00.000Z

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!

2008-06-12T11:03:00.009+01:00

The Globe Artichoke was a plant too far.

I've killed her.

(Mrs Smith.)

Esther

_ _ _ _ _

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For Yesterday.

MURDER IN THE MORNING

2008-06-11T14:26:00.023+01:00

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

2008-06-10T11:26:00.024+01:00

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 Tomorrow.

For Yesterday.

BEES, BOOKS AND ASTRONOMY

2008-06-09T12:10:00.032+01:00

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

2008-06-05T10:34:00.014+01:00

.
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

2008-06-04T13:35:00.012+01:00

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

2008-06-03T11:23:00.019+01:00

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'

2008-06-02T12:28:00.013+01:00

‘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

2008-06-01T13:51:00.011+01:00

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

2008-05-31T13:56:00.015+01:00

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

2008-05-30T11:55:00.008+01:00

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!

2008-05-29T09:51:00.006+01:00

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

2008-05-28T13:45:00.010+01:00

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

2008-05-27T12:38:00.015+01:00

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

2008-05-26T09:05:00.016+01:00

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

2008-05-25T09:45:00.014+01:00

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

2008-05-24T09:51:00.006+01:00

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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THE COLLAPSIBLE ROOF

2008-05-23T13:17:00.020+01:00

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'!

2008-05-22T11:46:00.011+01:00

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

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

2008-05-21T10:52:00.011+01:00

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

2008-05-20T08:50:00.003+01:00

For Tomorrow

NOTES ON THE KITCHEN TABLE

2008-05-19T12:43:00.010+01:00

Air - chill

Sun - stings

Every leaf; every vein in every leaf - distinct.

It will rain.

For Tomorrow

THE PLANNING STAGE

2008-05-18T10:46:00.013+01:00

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!)

2008-05-17T13:43:00.010+01:00

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!

2008-05-16T14:54:00.016+01:00

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

2008-05-15T13:16:00.015+01:00

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

TEA AND AQUILEGIA (CLEMENTINE) (PURPLE)

2008-05-14T11:00:00.037+01:00

LAST TUESDAY: PART THREE

The sense of power was immense.

Pleasant.

I glanced round at elderly shoppers with bags; tourists with cameras; waitresses with black dresses - and sucked in the secrecy.

I have no idea why extra-terrestrials are travelling round Dorset on a bus.

But this much is clear - they don't want people to know.

. . . . . . . . . . Of course - Didcott came home.

* * * * *

I wish he weren't called 'Didcott'.

Didcott is an uninteresting town with a power station and a railway museum.

'Worthing' is worse.

People only know it's there because Bernard Shaw bought a ticket for Worthing when he left his baby at Victoria.

(In a handbag).

* * * * *

The Clematis Armandii is sprouting long, wavy shoots from its fibrously dead-looking branches.

(Relief!)

* * * * *

Ming's given me a purple Aquilegia for the garden. The proper ones are called 'Granny's Bonnet'.
The flower on this one looks like a sparse chive.

I shall plant it next to his clump of dead grass.

* * * * *

Ceres, Robert and Caddis have a new baby sister.

Sharon.

For Tomorrow

THE GOLDEN FERN AND THE BLUE GLOWING MAN

2008-05-13T15:10:00.009+01:00

Last Tuesday (Continued)
(The dining room of the M.O.D. Bus.)

It wasn't long before guards and prisoners drifted in from their shopping and fossil hunting expeditions.

Some made tea in the kitchen.

Some went to the upper deck.

A guard called Fred came over to chat about rickshaws.

(He'd been with us when I had a fit on the Bournemouth bypass while visiting Ming.)

I slid my hand away from the flower press.

Fred's eyes flickered to the fern.

Away.

Back.

Away.

He looked puzzled.

Frowned.

Went outside to talk with the driver.

Didn't return.

Then the Second in Command on the Bus (a sort of Governor) came and picked up the flower press.

In a streak of sudden sunlight, the fern shone - dully gold.

The Second in Command glowed too (in the sunlight) - blue.

"You want to talk?" he asked.

We went up the hill - to a restaurant I know - and ate smoked mackerel and salad with brown bread and butter.

He suggested strawberries for pudding.

In May!

For Tomorrow

MORE ABOUT TREES

2008-05-12T12:45:00.058+01:00

I've travelled in an aeroplane twice; once at night; once over cloud.

So I've never seen a tree from above.

I can guess, though, what they look like.

Oak Trees

Apple trees

Horse Chestnut and Lime trees (and some oaks).

Cordylines

Small, stunted hawthorns, blasted by salt gales clinging to the tops of storm swept cliffs.

In a West Wind.

In an EastWind

When we landed on Pluto, fear distracted me. I didn't look at trees.

But I've looked into their branches.

From above, the larger ones probably look like this

or this.

Two shapes.

Fewer than on earth.

But Golfing Umbrellas have even fewer.
(Just one.)

(Unless furled counts.)(Which it doesn't!)

For Tomorrow

TODAY IT IS SUMMER

2008-05-11T14:36:00.004+01:00

Today, it is summer.

The street is full of sounds; children; adults; parties.

Heat.

My head hurts.

I feel sick.

I wish Didcott and Worthing had quiet, book reading friends.

Friends who close doors gently.

Who don't eat so many biscuits.

Perhaps some nice, anti-social friends who never visit?

I've sent them to the park.

(The ones who are here.)

(All of them.)

(With money for ice-creams.)

I'm going to bed.

Tomorrow, with any luck, it will be winter.

For Tomorrow

THREADS AND FERNS

2008-05-10T12:49:00.011+01:00

I mustn't lose track of my threads.

There's the inventory of Plutonian Flora.

And I started to say what happened when I went to rescue Didcott on Tuesday.

Then I got distracted by the Lyme Regis landslide.

Then I started to worry about a bush in my garden.

(The Landslide - I'm beginning to suspect that had more to do with the Refuse Department than alien invaders.

According to newspaper reports, a Council Rubbish Pit tumbled forward onto the beach, along with the boulders and rocks and earth and trees and bushes and grass and mud and fossils.

But, as gardeners know, digging holes close to each other is asking for trouble. The sides simply crumble . And what is a cliff by the sea if it is not a hole with one half missing?)

And Ming walked in yesterday evening.

He said someone had given him a lift.

He wanted to know if there was any supper left or had the rest of us eaten it?

(The 'rest of us' being me and Worthing and Didcott.)

So, now we are all together again - which should please Merlinprincesse.

Right - Tuesday.

(We had eaten the supper. Why not? We hadn't known he was going to walk in just then!)

(Ming.)

(And if he'd let us know in time, we would, of course have made something special. (We might even have risen to a carry-out from the very excellent Indian Restaurant on the main road.))

Anyway.

After I'd left the driver, I went to talk with some of the guards who were drifting back to the bus.

(This is Tuesday.)

Two of them were having an argument about 'Corporate Hospitality' - a topic unlikely to be of riveting interest to extra-terrestrials.

So I put them down as Chelsea Supporters.

But I was getting worried about the timing. Didcott would be back any second now with a pocket full of Belamites - and I didn't want him asking questions in public. So I asked a guard if I could sit and read on the bus.

He showed me to the dining area.

Which was useful.

I made myself comfortable, sat straight, removed the flower-press from my pocket, put it in on the table in front of me, unscrewed the little wing-nuts - and laid bare a small, yellow frond from a methane tolerant fern which I had 'collected' from the Botanic Gardens when I was on Pluto.

Then I waited to see who would notice.

For Tomorrow

WESTRINGIA FRUTICOSA WYNYABBIE - (GEM)

2008-05-09T15:34:00.017+01:00

My Westringia Fruticosa Wynyabbie is causing me thought.

It's stands (dark green and glossy) between the kitchen window and the dustbin.

Instructions which came with it (that is, with the Westringia Fruticosa Wynyabbie - not with the kitchen window) (nor with the dustbin either) say it should be planted in very dry, not very fertile soil in full sunshine.

(I think people are meant to know what to do with windows and dustbins - which is why you don't get little labels hanging off them when you buy them.)

(Actually, the window came with the house. I didn't have to buy it separately.)

(Though I did buy the dustbin - which probably had a price on but nothing more.)

(And, I suppose, when I think about it, there were a few instructions along with the house - like how to set the timer on the central heating - but I don't use the timer so the instructions were superfluous.)

(Which is a wonderful word - 'superfluous'.)

. . . . . Back to the plant . . . I dug a pit, threw aside the clay the house builders had hidden in the ground - and refilled the hole with gravel mixed with whatever earth was left over.

Then I made a low wall from lumps of Purbeck rock (which came from a Portland Stone quarry - the people who ran the quarry didn't want it - but why they had brought stone all the way from Purbeck when they didn't want it, I don't know! There's this vast, barren landscape with huge boulders and slabs of Portland Stone

- and they go to the trouble of importing a few small lumps from somewhere else. (Testing the opposition, perhaps?) Such are the mysteries of life. Sometimes, all you can do is to accept the inexplicable.)

Anyway - I made a little wall around the Westringia Bush (to stop water flowing into my newly created gravel pit) and hoped for the best.

Only the sun was missing. Lucy's house is in the way. But I hoped a small amount of light falling on the bush in late summer afternoons would be enough to tide it through the rest of the year.

Well, it seems to have worked. It grew high - and wide - and healthy - and happy (in so far as I can tell) - and spread its branches across three paths.

I didn't mind. I was happy to duck under. But visitors complained - especially when it was raining.

Last autumn, bowing to their opinion, I thinned it out and cut it back.

My poor Westringia Fruticosa Wynyabbie didn't like this.

It has refused to flower.

At this time of year, it would usually be encased in thousands of small, pale purple petals.

It isn't.

- Except for a branch I missed which has fallen sideways across one of the paths. Of all the branches on the bush, this alone has flowers.

I could prune it - but what is the point of a flowerless, dustbin revealing, should-be-flowering-but-isn't-bush standing outside the kitchen window?

Which is why my Westringia Fruticosa Wynyabbie is giving me cause for thought.

* * * * *

Lovely name though.

If ever I have a Martian daughter, I will call her Wynyabbie.

For Tomorrow

MARTIANS, PLUTONIANS, MARY ANNING - AND A MASSIVE LANDSLIDE

2008-05-08T12:12:00.014+01:00

I'm anxious and morose.

This is why:-

On Tuesday Morning

the M.O.D. Prison Bus was parked in Lyme Regis car park.

At Eight O'clock on Tuesday Evening

there was a landslide - VP told me.

It was the largest in that region for a hundred years.

* * * * *

Everyone's Heard of Darwin (I think).

Mary Anning hardly ever gets a look in.

She was young.

She was a woman.

She was poor.

She lived in Lyme Regis. (Not exactly the centre of the world.)

(Not then.)

(She died in 1849.)

But she kick started palaeontology.

(Not that it was described that way - they hadn't invented motorbikes.)

But until she sold Plesiosaurs and Ichthyosaurs and Pterosaurs no-one really noticed they were there. And then, when they did (notice) - it took a while before other scientists realised their significance.

And even longer for the rest of the world to agree.

* * * * *

It's the tide which releases them from the cliffs - before sucking them away.

Humans who want interesting ones - have to be quick.

* * * * *

Where would Darwin have been without Mary Anning and her collector's basket?

Nowhere.

(Probably.)

* * * * *

On Tuesday, Martians and Plutonians were allowed out onto the cliffs near Lyme.

By the end of the day, a four-hundred metre stretch had gone missing.

Slugs have eaten the tips off my Lilly of the Valley plants.

No wonder I'm morose.

_____

For Tomorrow

I BEGIN ON A CAREER OF BLACKMAIL

2008-05-07T10:52:00.013+01:00

Lyme Regis lies at the foot of a steep cliff. The roads to it are narrow. No sooner have they touched the sea than they veer up again.

In the few square yards where these roads meet, there is a small car-park.

The M.O.D. bus almost filled it.

I checked it was there, then retreated round the corner. Under cover of queuing for a slice of Dorset apple cake in a crowded baker's shop, I attached two badges to the lapel of my coat.

They were very simple.

One was red and white.

The other was blue and white.

Both were striped.

* * * * *

When I went back to the bus, it was empty.

The prisoners had gone fossil hunting.

The guards were buying presents for their friends and families.

Only the driver was nearby; sitting on a bench, eating a sandwich.

He didn't seem to recognise me - but he looked at my badges, sighed, shook his head, said 'Women' (in a weary sort of voice) and offered me an Everton mint.

I asked if he is from Liverpool.

I could see he was about to give me a lecture. Then he changed his mind.

"I'm a Geordie," he said.

- Same colours. Black and White.

(One real human identified.)

* * * * *

When it rains on Pluto, water which falls on an established tree is channelled along grooves in its upper branches - so it lands in a wide circle, at a distance from its trunk, and safely away from its roots.

Over the years, deep grooves form in the earth where it beats on the soil - and along their edges grow colonies of yellow, methane tolerant ferns.

They are quite distinct from any we have on earth.

Rubbery in texture, they are a bit like seaweed. And they smell musty (like mushrooms).

Yesterday, in my pocket, was a small flower-press.

I fingered the wing nuts for reassurance while I talked to the driver.

Pressed between layers of blotting paper and corrugated card
- were the leaves of rubbery, musty, yellow-gold ferns from Pluto.

Didcott's release.

* * * * *

Sam (my milkman) takes things literally.

It'll take him weeks to get over the thought of wild Cougars in Dorset.

He says Ron told him to watch out that they didn't try to drink my spare milk while I was away.

Honestly!

_____

For Tomorrow

THE SILHOUETTES OF TREES

2008-05-06T15:54:00.024+01:00

I've been thinking about the silhouettes of trees.

Roughly speaking, there are circles and semi-circles on sticks (like Oaks).

There are triangles on sticks (like Cypress and Spruce ).
There are sticks on sticks (like Poplars).Blobs on sticks (Apple Trees).Chimney brushes (Larch).

Feather dusters (Willow and Birch).Loo brushes and Parasols (Palm).
Candyfloss (Sweet Chestnut).Floppies like willows which weep;

And upwardly pointing cordylines.

Where there is snow, the triangle rules ok.

In Dorset, there is variety.

On Pluto - The Golfing Umbrella.

The bus to Lyme Regis leaves in ten minutes.

More tomorrow!

SUNDAY, MONDAY AND PLUTONIAN PLANTS

2008-05-05T07:33:00.014+01:00

SUNDAY

Worthing and I tried to take our minds off things by going to the Weymouth kite festival.

It rained.

The donkeys were bedraggled.

The kites wouldn't fly.

The stallholders were cold and morose.

We came home.

MONDAY

(Today!)

Ceres has pulled up half my clover and torn the tops off the rest.

(She must have done it while we were on Pluto.)

I planted some Lilly of the Valley under the Bay Tree and put the birdcage over it.

(I think the cats are used to nasturtiums now - but a cluster of new plants might inspire them to dig!)
Right.

Now.

THE PLANTS OF PLUTO
PART ONE

(This'll be like the inventory of those outside my living room window. I was going to do the ones to the right hand side of the front door next - but - never mind - I'll do them later.)

First, I Must Explain the Nature of the Planet.
Pluto cannot be seen from Earth because it spins within a sphere of ice.

Through a telescope, it appears to be smooth and cold and uninhabited. It isn't.

The air between the ground and the sky is much like ours (pleasant and, for the most part, breathable). And the sky doesn't look a lot different either - just a bit mottled.

Like earth, it has its own eco-systems and a wide range of climates. Many are congenial. Some are not.

Plutonian days are darker than ours because it is on the outer reaches of the universe. But, sometimes, Pluto whizzes towards the sun and everything gets lighter for a while. Then it whizzes back to the gloomier part of space where it usually resides.

(I wasn't there when it did this.)

From the point of view of plants, the main differences between growing conditions on Earth and on Pluto are those caused by lower light levels and a higher concentration of methane in the rain.

I'll explain more on Wednesday.
(After I've rescued Didcott.)

_____

For Tomorrow

HOME

2008-05-04T11:52:00.028+01:00

I disapprove of drunkenness in all its forms.

(Lucy says there aren't any 'forms' - just degrees. Well, I don't approve of them either.)

And the drunkenness I disapprove of most is when chauffeurs disappear in a crisis, later to be found (carousing) in Plutonian bars.

Worthing says there is no alcohol on Pluto. But he (the chauffeur) was holding a glass, looked drunk, was shouting a lot and fell off his chair when he saw us and -

Worthing says . . .

But never mind what Worthing says.

He can fly a spaceship. (Which was what mattered.)

* * * * *
We're back.
Well. Two of us are.

Me and Worthing.

* * * * *

It's Sunday.

Tomorrow it's Bank Holiday.

On Tuesday, when the shops are open and railway engineers have finished doing whatever they do to railway lines on bank holidays - and when everything's back to its everyday normal - I'll track down Didcott and ask his advice. The Martian guards on the bus might even be able to help.

And Worthing thinks I should easily be able to tell which guards are Martian - simply by eliminating any who aren't.
(The British guards all support football teams and Plutonians have blue skins.)

I don't like the word.

'Elimination'.

It sounds 'ominous'.

('Ominous', though, is a good word - sort of round.)

But not all humans like football - I say.

And they go bluish in the cold (humans).

And what if extra-terrestrials pretend to like sport - when they don't?

But Worthing replies (in a funny voice) - that no-one's going to call him an 'extra-terrestrial' and get away with it. It's too 'twentieth century'.

(Sometimes I don't like him.)

Then he says, "You don't know anything."

Which, I suppose, is true.

* * * * *

Thank you everyone who contacted Sam about the milk.

This was efficient and helpful. The downside was that I would have liked tea when I came home - but couldn't. (Have any.)

Lucy was out, so I knocked on Mrs Rustbridger's door to ask if she'd give me some till Tuesday.

She's terribly concerned about Sam. He keeps asking if anyone has seen a cougar.

Tomorrow, I'll write some notes about the flora of Pluto (while I remember).

Tuesday, I'll organise a double rescue mission for Ming and Didcott.

(It's about time I took matters into my own hands.)

Wednesday - oh, I don't know about Wednesday; gardening I suppose. I'll see.

_____

For Tomorrow

THINGS GET HAIRY

2008-05-03T13:43:00.007+01:00

PERHAPS ALL IS NOT GOING SO WELL ON PLUTO

BUT ESTHER REMAINS

(MORE OR LESS)

IN GOOD SPIRITS

CLICK HERE

TO SEE THE CARD AND READ HER LATEST MESSAGE

_____

For Tomorrow

POSTCARD FROM THE BOTANIC GARDENS

2008-05-02T13:01:00.021+01:00

A SECOND POSTCARD FROM PLUTO HAS ARRIVED

.TO SEE IT

CLICK HERE

P.S. The email address for the milkman is

dairyindorset@googlemail.com

_____

For Tomorrow

THE FIRST POSTCARD FROM PLUTO!

2008-05-01T12:58:00.010+01:00

A POSTCARD HAS ARRIVED FROM ESTHER ON PLUTO.

TO SEE IT -

CLICK HERE

_____

For Tomorrow

MESSAGE LEFT ON THE KITCHEN TABLE

2008-04-30T10:17:00.004+01:00

For Tomorrow

I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE!

2008-04-29T13:13:00.009+01:00

"Of course Pluto seems a long way away. Everywhere seems a long way to you! You even think Hereford is too far."

"It is - "

"I know!" he said. "I know! I know what you're going to say - 'It is if you go in a rickshaw!'!".

Ming was gritting his teeth so hard, sparks flew from the corners of his mouth.

He folded his newspaper and pressed the edges against the kitchen table.

(To emphasise his masculine command?)

"But I'm not suggesting we go anywhere in a rickshaw." (He was shouting.) "Not even Hereford!" (Shouting - louder.) Why would we go in a rickshaw when we've got a spaceship in the shed!"

"I'm not going to Hereford in a spaceship!"

(I was certain of that!)

Ming took my hand.

I smiled.

(I couldn't help it.)

(He has that effect on me.)

Then he sighed, rose, made a pot of coffee.

(They don't have coffee on Mars.)

Worthing came down for breakfast.

"Cranmer carried his wife everywhere in a trunk" he said, pouring milk on his oats. "Miss Young told us."

Ming looked interested.

* * * * *

(The Tudors should be banned from the Curriculum.)

* * * * *

Ming bought a plant for the garden yesterday.

It looks like a tussock of dead grass.

Lots of people round here have them.

_____

For Tomorrow

PLUTONIANS MAKE AN ENTRANCE

2008-04-28T13:02:00.024+01:00

Yesterday, I was thinking so much about snails I forgot to mention things less mundane.

Although I woke quite early, Ming already was downstairs and speaking to someone on the phone - in Martian.

My Martian is elementary.

I can:-

Count to ten.

And

I know the days of the week.

I can say:-

Good Morning

Good Evening

Hello

Goodbye

It's cold

It's hot

I love you

and

Help!.

Also:-

I'm in very great danger of being abducted.

And

A newspaper please.

When he had finished, Ming brought tea.

Why - I asked - hadn't he called me so I could have spoken to Didcott?

But it wasn't Didcott, he said. It was a prison guard - from the bus.

(A prison guard?)

(In Martian?)

Then he said he had to go, dressed quickly - and went.

I spent the rest of the day washing school clothes, agreeing with Worthing that homework is a bind but would he mind doing it anyway? - and throwing buckets of water at the honeysuckle bush in an attempt to wash away aphids.
That kind of thing.

* * * * *

Ming didn't crawl into bed until well after midnight.
"It's Didcott," he said. "We've got to get him off that bus. They're not all human there."
"I know," I said. "I heard you this morning, talking Martian."
"But that was a guard!" he said. "I knew about them."
(He hadn't told me!)
"Not guards, the prisoners. Some are from Pluto."
I was tired. I wasn't thinking properly. It seemed so unlikely - and so ludicrous - that I grinned.
"It's not funny." (He snapped.) "This is serious."
And he rolled to face the window.

So there I was - awake - and staring into darkness.

Thinking.

For Tomorrow

THE NIGHT SNAILS ALMOST RUINED THE BRANDENBURG CONCERTOS

2008-04-27T12:36:00.018+01:00

The weather is uncertain but warm.

Rumbles of thunder.

The young plants spend most hours outdoors. We bring them in at dusk.

Yesterday, we nearly forgot. It was late when we brought them in.

Dark.

I stooped. Picked up a pot.

Rustling.

I could hear rustling!

Loud rustling.

Not far away.

In the garden!

I listened.

I moved towards it.

Nothing.

I could see nothing.

I went back to the young plants.

Stooped for another pot.

Rustling.

Another rustling.

Another direction.

Nothing.

Nothing there.

Torch.

Snails!

Chomping snails.

Noisily chomping snails.

Recipe for Night-Time Collection.

Listen. Point torch. Collect. Throw over The Rustbridgers' wall.

(The snail.)
Listen. Point torch. Collect. Throw over The Rustbridgers' wall.
Listen. Point torch. Collect. Throw over The Rustbridgers' wall.

Ming says the snails don't mind.

Their suspension is good.

(He 'did' snails in engineering.)

But - I wonder.

I also wonder whether Bach would ever have become a composer if he'd tried working at night when snails were eating.

I think he'd have given up.

(Wrong rhythm.)

For Tomorrow

MARTIAN MATERIALS: AN ARGUMENT

2008-04-26T10:56:00.028+01:00

Ming complained.

If I'd put the duvets in suitcases under the bed - our clothes wouldn't have been transported to Mars.

So I said - I didn't think of it.
and
I'm frightened of suitcases.

Then I asked why he needed so many skins of the kind we humans wear.

Ming said - For the prisoners.

It was a late delivery.

It was supposed to have arrived on Monday; Tuesday at the latest.

I shivered.

(Martian White with a Twist of Lime. Is that what Amy said . . . ?)

"So - all the prisoners are from Mars?"

Ming said - Only some. But their disguises are wearing out.

I asked (very unpleasantly - and I apologised later) - why they hadn't been provided with stronger ones?

His reply was long and rambling - and not entirely to the point.

(He got carried away.)

(He thought I was claiming human superiority.)

(!)

It was interesting though.

Human skins are fragile. They tear easily. What right did I (a human) have to criticise Martian textiles?

Humans lose their luggage nearly every time they fly anywhere. Why did I think it would be different in space?

Humans haven't thought of Sock-Power.

Earth has a 'Shoot-To-Kill-If-You-See-An-Alien' policy. That's why Martians have to wear disguises. (Did I want him killed?)

(This was the worst argument we'd had since the one about tomato seeds at the Garden Centre.)
And (finally) if he hadn't chosen such a good disguise I might not have agreed to marry him.

Initially, I thought this was rather romantic - and I smiled.

Afterwards, I wasn't sure.

SHOPPING LIST
Pappadums (three packets)
Washing powder
Eggs
Sharp sand
Onions
Ten five-inch clay pots
A tin of Tuna
Potting compost.

NOTE
Find out if Ming Porcelain Day Lilies (as recommended by Melanie!) can be ordered from the Garden Centre.

The temperature is rising. It's gonna be a hot day.

_____

For Tomorrow

FEAR IN THE SHED

2008-04-25T13:39:00.016+01:00

I must think of something ordinary and reassuring.

I must weed.

I must re-pot my pumpkins.

I must do everything I can to take my mind from yesterday.

Perhaps I should sow beetroot?

* * * * *

It started alright.

(Yesterday.)

Slugs are irritating - but not alarming.

(Unless, as Linda comments, you get one stuck on the end of your finger!)

(But how, I ask, does a woman with the largest known collection of gardening gloves ever - manage to get a slug on the end of her finger?)

* * * * *

It's all the fault of the squash.

Ming wants to 'start off'' so many, I'm beginning to wonder whether the thought of returning to the M.O.D. (and dusting and polishing its nuclear weapons) is getting him down.

Is he thinking of farming instead?

But - he is my husband - 'for better or worse' - and the very 'worst' I was expecting yesterday was only that emptying the airing cupboard would be something of a trial.

But that was precisely where the trouble began.

* * * * *

I must think about knitting.

Or think about pressing some seeds into lichen on top of the garden wall.

(Or do it!)

Perhaps I should go for a long - very long - walk?

* * * * *

What could have possessed me?

A spirit of recklessness may have crept in.

The duvets for winter were heavy and awkward; I failed when I thought of the cupboard downstairs.

So I took all our clothes from the wardrobe, replaced them with bedding and towels; then I carried the shirts, and our knickers and socks, our vests and our trousers and jumpers and hankies and everything else to the shed.

The sensible part of me thought:-

"If the washing machines are needed, our clothes (which were now piled inside) - would be seen . And the person planning to use them (the machines) (Worthing or Ming) would remove them (the clothes) before turning them on (the machines)."

And the sensible part of me took great care to avoid the buttons and dials.

What I didn't consider was they (the machines) could possibly start on their own.

And another part of me thought:-

If something went wrong, our clothes (and the odd sock or two) would be swapped for some 'new' ones. It'd be fun to wear Martian attire for a change.

The wool shop. I think I'll go to the wool shop. I'll buy a pattern and knit.
Perhaps I should make lace. (Already I know how to tat.)
(Are there two 'T's at the end of 'tat' or just the one?)
If only I could dig something!
But - what I hadn't expected (the faint hearted should stop reading here) was a pile of flexible skins!
(For Martians to use.)
(When disguising themselves as humans.)

* * * * *

The parsley hasn't grown much.

For Tomorrow

RAVENING HOARDS OF SLUGS, CITY DWELLERS AND (POSSIBLY?) MARTIANS

2008-04-24T14:02:00.021+01:00

Sam (who grows and delivers our veg.) says the time will come when ravening hoards from cities will descend upon the countryside in search of food - and strip it bare.

There will be famine.

There will be violence.

Last night, it seems, an advance guard came from the ground (disguised as slugs) and ate all the chives in my garden.

There's been a bit of a surge on the Romanesques too - but nothing (neither slug, nor child nor snail) has bothered with the single Globe Artichoke I planted at the front of the house.

Good.

We've had a letter from the school.

This term, Year 5 will be learning about light and sound.

At breakfast, Worthing asked Ming if he knows anything about 'velocity'.

Grabbing a piece of charcoal from the cupboard where we keep things for 'Drawing With' Ming leapt onto a kitchen chair and began to fill the wall with equations and diagrams and pictures of spaceships.

(I think The Tudors have been getting him down recently.)

Worthing was entranced.

The post arrived - a paint chart.

Good timing!

Spring Cleaning should already have been under way - but it's such a chore!

It might be quicker (I've been thinking)
- and more entertaining ( I've been thinking) -
to paint over the dirt than to wash it off!

Worthing took hold of the chart. He was angry. He didn't like the idea of Ming's equations being painted over so soon.

"Spaceships and diagrams are more interesting than blankness and whiteness and boring old cleanness!" he said.

My breath caught.

Whiteness?

Cleanness?

Greenness!

According to paint makers, there are many forms of white.

Pale lemon is 'Citrus White'.

Pink is 'Rose White'.

'Polar White' is a very pale blue.

They've got a 'White With a Hint of Oat'. (Porridge.)

They've got a 'Sunset White'. (Pale Orange).

And they've got 'Apple White', 'Mint White' and 'White With Green Banana'.

My thinking was muddled. But a penny had certainly dropped.

Now - I wonder if there's a colour code for the pale, greenishness of aliens who haven't taken enough exercise.

* * * * *

For Tomorrow

BIRDCAGE

2008-04-23T11:08:00.017+01:00

It was quite festive.

The guards took up positions beside the windows and doors; the driver took a garden chair out to the street so he could keep an eye on the bus; the prisoners settled themselves between the kitchen and living room; and I went round with a tray.

Ming was at school.

The only really difficult moment was when I asked Worthing to change Didcott's nappy.

When they came back from the bathroom, they had swapped places. Didcott now carried Worthing.

No-one thought it odd that I cried when I went to wave goodbye - Worthing looked so much like Ming.

* * * * *

The nasturtium survived the night.

Cats endanger it more than slugs do. They like to bat its leaves.

(The cats.)

So I've put a bird cage over it. I don't usually like garden ornaments - but old cage and new nasturtium look surprisingly good together.

The Romanesque has survived as well - and the hollyhock persists - though it has the same number of leaves as when I planted it two months ago. There's a constant cycle of slug damage and replacement. But it's holding its own. So maybe its roots are strong.

* * * * *

Having semi-submerged a crop of flowerpots yesterday, I'm now pressing inverted ones into the soil.

That makes it harder for cats to dig out my plants.

They like newly turned earth.

(The cats.)

(And some plants.)

(As long as you water them in.)

(The plants.)

(Not the cats.)

(I mean - plants should be watered in newly dug earth. Cats shouldn't.)

(Unless you want to get rid of them.)

(The cats.)

(And even then, it only sometimes works.)

(Watering cats.)

(And sometimes, watering plants gets rid of them.)

(If they don't need to be watered.)

Hm.

* * * * *

Ming spent the evening describing The Tudors so Worthing can be Didcott in lessons at school.

"Now do you see why Bleeding Bowls are useful? They'll remind us of Didcott while he's away,"
said Ming.

"But leeches! Leeches! Do we really need leeches?"

Leeches?
What Leeches?
They've gone.

_____

For Tomorrow

PLANTING FLOWERPOTS

2008-04-22T13:24:00.020+01:00

Right.

So.

The house is hoovered and dusted. There are thirty-one mugs on the kitchen table. (For twenty prisoners, ten guards and a driver.) Didcott is nine months old (for the moment) and sitting on my knee.

I can hardly bear it - within a couple of hours, he will be gone.

Strangely, over the last few weeks, I have grown to love him.

His disposition is grim.

He is determined;

solid;

mostly silent;

- and always 'there'.

If I go to the shed, Didcott is 'there' - watching.

When the phone rings, Didcott is 'there' - listening.

When it is time for him to go to school, Didcott is 'there' - with reasons why he shouldn't have to go today!

But - now the moment has arrived for him to take his place in prison - he offers no excuses.

And I will miss him.

I clasp him tight.

I bounce him on my knee.

I wish he didn't have to go

* * * * *

To distract myself, I've spent the morning planting flowerpots.

Every day, from now on, I'll gather a good harvest of slugs; one from beneath each.

(Snails cluster;
slugs sleep alone.)

Then, having returned the pots to their semi-submerged places in the earth, I'll fill them with water. It will seep gently and economically only to the roots which need it. Precision gardening!

* * * * *

I've been out at the front too, pulling the last teasles and checking on the clover.

(Bright, green - and spreading!)

I've planted the first Romanesque.

I've planted the first nasturtium.

(If they are still there tomorrow, I'll plant more.)

(If they aren't; I won't.)

I hear someone mowing grass.

I HEAR THE BUS.

* * * * *

_____

For Tomorrow

SUSPICIONS ABOUT RUNNER BEANS AND COFFEE WITH VP

2008-04-21T16:01:00.010+01:00

Gosh! I'm lucky. VP didn't bring her axe with her.

I'm not sure whether this was in deference to the genteel ambience of Poundbury Garden Centre, or whether she forgot. But, for whatever reason, her axe wasn't to be seen and I escaped with my life.

Indeed, there was nothing to suggest she was anything other than a charming, interesting, gardener from Chippenham.

She didn't mention Saturn once.

And while I put my foot in it over and over again by saying what I don't like about other people's gardens - and what I find funny about other people's blogs - and how marvellous my own garden is even though most of it has fallen apart in the wind - VP spoke only warmly about everyone and everything.

I passed on Wilb's good wishes from Rach.

And, just as I was about to leave, I did as Karen suggested - and asked probing questions about Skimbleshanks and Jess. Are they really cats - or alien beings - disguised?

VP laughed - in an off hand 'I-know-you're-only-joking' sort of way.

(That in itself was suspicious!)

I grew apprehensive.

Suddenly - I realised!

If VP is from Saturn, would she risk meeting me on her own?

I took a quick glance round the room.

Could her cats be 'shape-shifters'?

Were Skimbles and Jess here? Disguised as humans?

The waiter?

The woman at the cash till?

I ran from the coffee shop.

Heart beating.

And bought seeds.

(Some people turn to drink - some to seeds.)

Marigolds. (Ha! Mr Subjunctive!)

Californian Poppies. (Hello Rosa Sinensis!)

Wild flowers that are supposed to grow where nothing else will. (Take that you bit of trodden ground outside my living room window!)

More Runner Beans.

(Though I'm not sure these were the right ones to chose.)

Indeed, I'm more afraid of them than I am of aliens from Saturn. (Saturnians?)

(Saturnalians? - No! That can't be right!)

According to the packet, 'Wisley Magic Beans' give 'the heaviest yields of any garden variety'.

They have 'Long, smooth, straight pods with a delicious flavour'. They have a 'long picking season'.

So - what's the catch?

If these runner beans are that good, why grow any other variety?

Will Scarlet Runners be run out of town? Forced from shops? Removed from catalogues?

Obliterated from tradition?

Did VP, Skimbles and Jess bring them from Saturn?

Will the packet explode when I open it?

Will the chicken soup be ready in time for Didcott to drink when he returns from the Mary Rose?

- Who knows?

_____

For Tomorrow

PLANS FOR THE WEEK

2008-04-20T11:19:00.005+01:00

Monday - Coffee with VP at Poundbury.

Tuesday - Visit Worthing in prison.

Wednesday - Rest.

Thursday - Clear everything from the airing cupboard - towels, sheets, spare pillows, clothes - everything. (Ming is planning to grow a large crop of squash and needs extra space for seed trays.)

Friday - Something's bound to come up.

Ming says Didcott must swap places with Worthing.

The prison bus is now being taken on long trips down European motorways. The experience, says Ming, will advance Didcott's education.

I protest.

But Didcott is keen to go.

He says it's his 'Family Responsibility'.

This, I think, means he's heard enough about The Tudors for the moment.

"We've all felt like that from time to time," I assure him, "but," I say, "going to prison is not honourable means of escape."

(He's looking forward to the Mary Rose visit though - probably because there'll be crisps in his picnic box.)

To make sure the plan runs smoothly, Didcott has been practising 'nine months'.

The difference between eight and nine months in a baby is subtle but discernible. If he gets it wrong, we may all end up in prison.

(Then, who will do the watering?)

Ming suggested I practise looking 'Not Guilty' in front of the mirror.

I think I'm beginning to get the hang of it.

(When the exchange was effected last time, I was lucky enough to have had a fit. I didn't have to 'LOOK' anything. I was too busy lying on the floor being frightened and worrying how we'd get home.)

At least we won't need the rickshaw this time. The bus is coming to us.

I've bought a crate full of cheap mugs so we can offer everyone tea.

And several packets of chocolate digestives.

Indeed, the kitchen is beginning to look quite festive!

_____

For Tomorrow

IS VP A MAD, AXE-WIELDING ALIEN FROM SATURN?

2008-04-19T11:28:00.023+01:00

This is fun!

I'll be meeting VP for the first time on Monday.

She's coming to Dorset and suggests we have coffee together.

I'll find out if she really exists!

(If she is who she says she is.)

I'll ask hard questions.

(Suggestions?)

Poundbury Garden Centre is pretty upmarket.

(Not quite Austin, Texas - but getting there.)

Sofas in the café and home-made cakes. (No muddy boots or putting our feet up on chairs!)

Ming will take a day off school.

(He insists.)

(Didcott will be at the 'Mary Rose' with the rest of their class.)

(More Tudors!)

Ming will lurk in town.

(Different café.)

He'll be playing 'GO' (boring, ancient Japanese Game) - with a rural clergyman friend who has a very large beard.
(False?)
(Beard; not friendship.)
I don't play it.
(GO.)
(Actually, I'm not bright enough. I don't know where to put the pieces and I cry if I lose.)
(And I do.)
(Lose.)
(Always.)
But if VP turns out to be a mad, axe wielding alien from Saturn instead of a respectable gardening lady from Chippenham (which seems to be Ming's main concern) - he'll be there in a flash.
So I'm safe.
(Probably - it's a fifteen minute walk up hill.)
(But he's got long legs.)
(Green.)

_____

For Tomorrow

FOSSILISED ROSES AND THE RUNNER BEAN RACE

2008-04-18T12:45:00.009+01:00

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

OH HOW BLEAK LIFE IS - THE BUDS ARE SHRIVELLING AND THE HEADMASTER'S COMPLAINING

2008-04-17T10:24:00.012+01:00

The Madame Alfred Carriere Rose knows English.

I wish I'd been warned!

Its blooms are oversized - I said. (And droopy!)

I complained of its pinkish tinge.

But I didn't know it was listening!

Perhaps I should have phrased it better?

For now, it mopes.

The buds are opening too soon (before they have properly swelled). The petals are small and their edges are dulled with brown.

To dislike pinkish and large - should not be taken to mean I like small, discoloured and distorted.

So -

I must be polite; grovel; explain.

I'm glad it speaks English - cos I don't know 'Rose'.

* * * * *

PLANTS OUTSIDE OUR LIVING ROOM WINDOW
(THE LAST, EXCITING EPISODE)
PLANT IN WAITING:-

BLACKCURRANT BUSH
My allotment is now a housing estate.
(And I don't trust Ming's to last.)
So until we find one 'for ever and aye' I keep our fruit bushes in 'holding bays' - with a blackcurrant one (by our window) between the nettles and mint.
(Mint? Did I list Mint in the 'Plants That Are Meant To Be There'?)
Hidden in the shrubbery and down by the apple tree there are more.
1.) Two Blackcurrant bushes.
2.) One Whitecurrant bush which I thought was dead but which suddenly has leaves on.
3.) One dead Red Cob Nut. (Which might be a dead Red Hazel.)
4.) One green Hazel that Ming says isn't a hazel at all.
Witch Hazel? - Wych Hazel? - NUT BUSH!

END OF INVENTORY

POM!

* * * * *

Letter from Headmaster.
Ming's hair is too short and too green.

* * * * *

North East wind.

* * * * *

Need to buy tea.

___

For Tomorrow

BLEEDING BOWLS - AND THAT CHAUFFEUR AGAIN

2008-04-16T09:38:00.012+01:00

I was right about the Tudors.

Ming and Didcott came home from school yesterday with bleeding bowls - they'd made them from aluminium foil.

There was a pool of blood in each one.

- Flour, oil, salt and food colouring - mixed and cooked.

Both bowls are on display in the middle of the kitchen table.

I wish we had a dining room.

I wish they hadn't made leeches.

* * * * *

Last night, the moon was two-thirds full - and bright.

With two stars above it - in an otherwise empty sky.

One to the left; one to the right.

Equidistant.

(Where its ear-tips would be if the moon had ears.)

(Cat's ears.)

Later, by chance, I woke (unusual!) and went to look at those stars.

Clouds came across the moon but there was light - light enough to see into the garden.

Miss Martin's chauffeur was coming out of our shed, carrying a large, striped, laundry bag.

I thought of waking Ming.

(At night, he goes back to his usual age.)

But he looked so peaceful (so luminously green) I hesitated to wake him.

When I returned to the window - the chauffeur was gone.

._____

For Tomorrow

AGE AND IRISES

2008-04-15T11:28:00.005+01:00

I know how to change Ming's age.

He showed me!

Under his skin, between his shoulder blades - is a dial.

Rub clockwise - he gets older.

Rub anti-clockwise - he grows younger.

Ming says humans have dials too.

He's seen parents rub the backs of their babies.

(That proves it?)

Martians are fascinated by humans. Humans seem only to grow older.

Why?

One of his missions is to learn whether this is because our dials don't function properly or whether we never think of rubbing in the opposite direction.

(!)

Diffidently, he asked if he might rub my back widdershins as an experiment.

No!

I'm nervous.

I still am.

What if he creeps secretly from behind and rubs my dial?

Before I know it, I'll be three!

(Do left-handed people rub widdershins? I expect so. And the children of left-handed people grow older - don't they?)

AND NOW FOR - TODAY'S THRILLING INSTALMENT OF PLANTS OUTSIDE MY LIVING ROOM WINDOW!

PLANTS WHICH ARE SORT OF THERE - BUT NOT QUITE:-

FLAG IRISES

Every spring, they rise valiantly from the ground.

Every spring. I show them to Robert, Ceres and Caddis.

"Look. These are plants," I say.

"I want them to grow," I say.

(Trying not to sound patronising.)

"Please don't tread on them!"

(I say.)

Robert, Caddis and Ceres smile.

Forget.

And tread on them the next time they need an eighteen inch short-cut.

* * * * *

Caddis says she's not named after cherries - but a planet.

(?)

_____

For Tomorrow

I START AN INVENTORY OF GARDEN PLANTS. I TRY TO USE LATIN NAMES. BRIEFLY, I CONSIDER A CAREER AS A CRIMINAL. MELANIE BRINGS ME BACK TO EARTH.

2008-04-14T11:32:00.012+01:00

White Sage:-
To me, it's a lumpy old plant with woody stems that split - grow top heavy - and fall over sideways - revealing dull and dusty underskirts with spiders in.

But, suddenly, I am tantalised by the idea that White Sage might be a dangerous hallucinogen! (Californian!) I could pack it in bundles and sell it to shady characters! They would give me lots of money for it! I'd be rich!

Would the lady in the back street bookshop be my agent? (I wondered.)

If she were my agent, would she stop threatening me with flattened geranium flowers? (I wondered.)

I'll never find out.

My Sage is boring old cottage-garden sage with woody stems and dusty underskirts and spiders - and the man who comes to read the gas metre says it gets in his way. (Huh!)

I'll have to look for another way to make a fortune.

INVENTORY CONTINUED:-
PLANTS WHICH WERE THERE UNTIL THEY WERE STEPPED ON:-

1. More Hollyhocks

2. Californian Poppies

3. The beginnings of a Holly Hedge

4. Mock Orange.

I remember making a fuss at the garden centre; insisting they find me a Philadelphus Coronarius Aureus because I liked the golden leaves.

But why? The ground would have been too dry. If Robert, Ceres and Caddis hadn't landed on the poor little plant when they swung off the lamp-post, it would have died anyway.

* * * * *

Ming wants to visit Hereford.

I said - "It's too far. We'd never get there and back in a day."

Ming said - "Surely Hereford isn't more distant than Mars?"

I said - "It is in a rickshaw!"

* * * * *

The Melanie that knows about Salvias - has a blog at Old Country Gardens

_____

For Tomorrow

MISS MARTIN (UNFORTUNATELY) - SCALE INSECTS AND JAM

2008-04-13T11:42:00.025+01:00

Bright start to the day. Rain falling straight down in silver lines through the sunshine. (Instead of being pushed earthwards and shoved to the side by the wind.)

* * * * *

Miss Martin phoned.

She asked if Ming would be at the M.O.D. for work tomorrow.

I said this is unlikely because he's still in prison.

She said "Oh yes!", paused, and rang off.

(She's good at pauses.)

It strikes me that she takes an unusually close interest in her cleaning staff.

INVENTORY OF PLANTS GROWING OUTSIDE MY LIVING ROOM WINDOW CONT.
(Further!)

CONDITIONS
Done them!

Today:-
PLANTS WHICH ARE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE BECAUSE I PUT THEM THERE AND BECAUSE I LIKE THEM AND BECAUSE I THINK THEY LOOK GOOD IN THAT SITUATION AND WHICH ARE STILL THERE BECAUSE NO-ONE HAS TRODDEN ON THEM (YET):-

One hollyhock - over-wintered in situ. - home to scale insects. (It doesn't seem to ming - I mean mind.)

Daffodils - there are two pretty ones still in bloom (four, pale, double-blooms to a stem).

(I think Robert, Ceres and Caddis saw me talking to their mum after they'd pulled the heads off the last lot - and their apprehension protected my flowers.)

I was asking her why she'd called Ceres 'Ceres'.

Answer - 'She was pink and round when she was born'.

Eh?

* * * * *

I've been looking through jam books.

Lucy says it's a waste of time making jam when you can buy it.

I say it's a waste of time eating - if it's shop bought jam.

Lucy tells me it comes from the W.I. market.

- Well, that's different. She should have said so in the first place!

(Sometimes, people simply don't make the effort to be clear.)

_____

For Tomorrow

INVENTORY OF PLANTS GROWING OUTSIDE MY LIVING ROOM WINDOW CONTINUED

2008-04-12T13:17:00.033+01:00

CONDITIONS
(Same as yesterday - only wetter.)
Sheltered.
East facing.
Very poor soil.
Very, very dry.

PLANTS OF SENTIMENT:-

1. Sage - because I was given it and it's nice to have a herb, even if you don't like it (which I don't).

2. A purple clematis - an elderly friend asked me to look after it; then she died. How could I do anything other than plant it?

* * * * *

Worthing phoned.

He's missing us.

I cried and said I'm missing him too.

I've been seized by a multi-faceted and awful thought!

a.) I don't understand how age works on Mars.

b.) Could my children be older than me?

c.) Very old men?

d.) Could Ming be younger than I have assumed?

e.) A baby?

I'll have to ask.

* * * * *

To take my mind off things, I've drawn a rough diagram of the garden in front of the living room window; complete with clover patch and lampost.

This gives the impression my house consists of one room only.

It doesn't.

More hail. .

More rain. .

More April.

_____

For Tomorrow

DEFENSIVE GARDENING AND THE UNRELIABILITY OF WASHING MACHINES

2008-04-11T09:58:00.018+01:00

INVENTORY OF PLANTS GROWING OUTSIDE MY LIVING ROOM WINDOW.

CONDITIONS

Sheltered.
East facing.
Very poor soil.
Very, very dry.

(I'll divide the plants into categories.)

Today:-
PLANTS FOR SELF DEFENCE

1. Nettles

2. Teasles.

(Not a long list - but an important one!)

Nettles and teasles prevent Robert, Caddis and Ceres from leaning in through my open window to ask why:-

a.) I've left books on the living-room floor
b.) I haven't done the hoovering
c.) I don't have a television.

PLANS FOR LATER THIS YEAR:-

1. Plant lemon balm in among the nettles.

2. Replace teasles with Globe Artichokes.

(Aren't lists satisfying!)

* * * * *

Ming and Didcott looked very smart yesterday in their navy blue uniforms.

Grey trousers.
Blazers with gold embroidered emblems on their breast pockets.
White shirts.
Navy ties with thin gold stripes slanting down at 45 degrees.
Black shoes.

Letter from headmaster.

Please would I provide my children with the correct uniform?

What?

I looked at the emblem.

Ming looked sheepish.

'HEREFORD COUNTY SCHOOL FOR GIRLS'

(!)

(?)

"Ming!" I said. "We must go to a proper school outfitters! You can't expect Martian washing machines to know the difference between Dorset and Herefordshire!"

* * * * *

(I think I'm using too many exclamation marks.)

_____

For Tomorrow

ASTRO-PHYSICS , THE TUDOR DYNASTY AND CLOVER

2008-04-10T13:47:00.011+01:00

Ming and Didcott went to school today - aged ten.

"Don't worry about Worthing," he said, as I kissed them goodbye. "I won't let him down, I promise. I'm good at astro-physics."

I said - 'Astro-physics' isn't on the Year Five curriculum.

He wanted to know what they might be doing instead.

I knew the answer. Lucy told me the other day when we were discussing 'modern education'.

"The Tudors."

"What are they?" he whispered (alarmed). "I don't think we have them on Mars!"

Explaining didn't help.

"Don't worry," I said. "That's what schools are for - learning things!"

* * * * *

There's an arc of bare earth round the street lamp - where the children gather and 'hang'.

And they've stamped out a path at a tangent - a 'short cut' for when they play 'It'.

The Philadelphus (Coronarius?) I planted there, lasted for less than a week.

And though that was more than three years ago now, there's a hollow still marking the spot.

. . . . . . . . . . Clover?

(That's what Melissa suggests.)

I went to the front of the house and thought.

I looked at the circle - the tangent - the bare, dusty earth, the clover.

Clover?

It's found it's own home!

Already it's lush in the hollow - and reaching into the grass!

(What's left of it!)

I don't need to worry about growing conditions!

I won't need to buy seed!

Ha! I've got a new lawn!

(Total area - about three square feet.)

* * * * *

I made packed lunches for Didcott and Ming.

I hope no-one asks why they're green!

(Didcott and Ming.)

_____

For Tomorrow

FORSYTHIA

2008-04-09T14:28:00.011+01:00

One-track conversation:-

Is it morally acceptable to escape prison by swapping identities with your eight month old son?

Ming says Worthing wanted to do it. He chose to be eight-months old. It was perfect cover!

(No wonder Worthing suddenly seemed to like Syllabubs!)

True; no-one noticed the baby that left in the Head Guard's arms was Ming.

The Head Guard even changed his nappy!

(I'll send three pumpkins, I think!)

Until yesterday, I didn't feel like a mother.

Didcott fed and clothed Worthing.

I dug the garden.

But, now, he's in prison - and I want him back!

Ming is sorrowful.

"Didn't you want to see me?" he asks (as he follows me mournfully round the house).

I've invented a repost -

'Oh! Go pull a weed!'

Good that, eh?

(Not that I say it out loud!)

Of course I was wanting to see him! Every minute!

"We'll just swap around," he says consolingly. "Me, Didcott and Worthing. We'll go to prison in turns."

* * * * *

(He's given me Forsythia cuttings. Leaned over a neighbour's wall and . . . )

* * * * *

(Now he's at the Horticultural Society buying Rooting Powder.)

* * * * *

(He's alright really!)

(Even if he has left our youngest son incarcerated on an M.O.D. bus!)

(!)

_____

For Tomorrow

PLANTING BAYCORNS

2008-04-08T12:56:00.013+01:00

Weary.

Staying in bed today!

* * * * *

Didcott came to my room and asked if he could take Worthing to the allotment so they could count Syllabubs.

I said I didn't think Worthing is likely even to be faintly interested in Syllabubs!

Didcott said, "You never know.".

As it turned out, I didn't.

* * * * *

Had a brief potter round the garden.

Found a bay-tree berry on the path - beside some fallen-over flower-pots.

Mice (or birds) had gnawed (or pecked) away the flesh; leaving a pale brown nut; smooth; tactile.

I looked around - and found more.

Planted them.

They were very light.; maybe they've dried out.

Perhaps they were ones a squirrel didn't want?

Maybe they won't grow.

Interesting though.

I'm calling them 'Bay-corns'.

Back to bed.

* * * * *

Later:-

Didcott's just called up the stairs. There are nine shoots from seven tubers on the Jerusalem Artichokes at the allotment.

He's putting the kettle on.

* * * * *

Later still:-

Didcott didn't bring tea.

Ming did.

A mug in each hand.

He wanted to know why Didcott wasn't at school.

I fainted.

* * * * *

(No, I didn't. I don't faint. I wish I could have fainted though. It would have been so expressive!)

For Tomorrow

A PICNIC IN PRISON, FITS, SCUFFLES AND PUMPKINS

2008-04-07T15:39:00.024+01:00

Astonishing!
Blue sky; white clouds; sunshine; patches of deep blue sea glimpsed between round-topped hills.

Cold before dawn; crisp once the sun was up.

At ten, we put aside the blankets.

It was a long journey though - my legs still ache.

And we made it only just in time - gliding up beside the bus with less than two minutes to spare.

I could see Ming's greenish head peering down from the top deck. He looked odd, sort of bald without his plume of punk-pink hair.

The guards liked the pasties (luckily I'd brought more than we needed!) and they supplied us with tea (in exchange for lemon).

(Not many people make homemade lemonade nowadays because it's difficult to find any un-waxed fruit.)

And they loved the rickshaw.

(They took turns to ride it up and down while Didcott and I chatted to Ming and a guard played 'Round and Round the Garden' with Worthing.)

Then I had a fit.

Worthing started to cry.

(Loudly.)

The guard went for the First-Aider.

The First-Aider couldn't come.

(He was down the other end of the lay-by pedalling about on our rickshaw. I could hear everyone shouting for him to return.)

So there I was - limp on the floor - eyes shut - sense of direction gone - hazily worrying how we'd get home.

Ming was soothing Worthing by telling him he loved him

and Didcott was singing nursery rhymes (as if that would help!)

and all of the time, I could hear them scuffling.

Scuffling?

Then the 'First-Aider' arrived.

(At last!).

And he couldn't think of anything except to send for an ambulance.

(Which we didn't need.)

Then the Head Guard came running up the narrow flight of stairs.

He looked. He thought. He decided on a plan; - that he'd drive us back home in the rickshaw.

(As long as we agreed he could pedal all the way.)

How can I thank him?

I'll send him a pumpkin!

(Or two.)

(After all, he did change Worthing's nappy.)

_____

For Tomorrow

WEATHER WORSENS

2008-04-06T10:22:00.011+01:00

We're ready for tomorrow.

The rickshaw is polished; tires checked.

Our picnic is made:-

- Cheese and leek pasties (wrapped in grease-proof paper).

- Boston ginger biscuits (in a tin)

- Lemon Cordial (in bottles)

- Tomatoes

- Apples.

Worthing can have a banana.
An M.O.D. man phoned. He said we'll find the bus in a lay-by on the Bournemouth bypass. We must be there by midday. Otherwise, it'll move on.

I couldn't hear everything he said because Didcott kept prodding Worthing and making him cry.

I didn't like to say "Sorry for the noise - my children are attacking each other," so I said "Poor Worthing is teething," instead.

Didcott smiled a huge smile. Then he gave Worthing a hug and a piece of carrot.

Mrs Rustbridger brought round a pile of crocheted blankets; the weather forecast for tomorrow doesn't look too good.

The weather today doesn't look too good either.

Yesterday, it was spring - and sun - and birds singing - and stuff.

Today, there are cold slants of rain.

Oh flippin' 'ec! It's snowing!

_____

For Tomorrow

CURMUDGIONS, BAY TREES AND MYSTERIES

2008-04-05T12:35:00.015+01:00

I've decided to be a 'Curmudgion'.

Curmudgionliness will restore dignity to my bad temper.

(I'll re-claim it; revel in it; put it on show.)

Gardeners are always Curmudgeons for they prefer to be alone. If ever they slip guard and seem to be sociable - beware, they are only pretending.

Dictionaries say Curmudgions are misers.

They are wrong.

And, even if they were right, I'd miss out on that bit.

For if I stash my cash in a soft leather bag and stow it under the floorboards, I won't have the money to buy globe artichoke seeds - and I need to replace the packet I lost.

(Where is it? Where are the beetroot seeds? )

People who have nothing to mise (because they've spent their money) - can't be misers.

So - miserliness will have to be scrubbed - for I am re-claiming 'Curmudgion'.

* * * * *

Little boys eating chips in a quiet restaurants are a strain on Curmudgionly spirit.

Waitresses smiling at noisy little boys dissolve it.

* * * * *

Curmudgion, Curmudgion

Curmudgionliness

Curmudge.

(This is fun!)

* * * * *

Oooops!
* * * * *

The Bay (round its trunk) has white spots of mould - so I've turned it into a tree.

A proper tree.

I've opened it out; let in the air; brightened the light in the garden.

And the garden, suddenly, is bigger; more elegant; less jungly (more disturbing).

* * * * *

Looking forward to seeing Ming on Monday.

I have to write to the school - say the boys.

(For time off!)

School?

_____

For Tomorrow

THE DEMISE OF THE CLEMATIS

2008-04-04T12:05:00.017+01:00

There's a great heap of stars in my garden.

I've taken the clematis down.

The wind, Ceres, Robert and Cadis finally did for it - so the snails have lost their home.

Suddenly there's light.

The dark glossy leaves have been eating up sun - but now . . .

now it's a skeleton with thin bits of new-growth on top - all wispy.

Like the apple.

(The shape. Not the wispy bits. The apple hasn't got wispy bits.)

Didcott is making a fuss. He says we've forgotten his birthday.

(Birthday?)

Worthing has gone back to ten for the day - specially to help him complain.

They want us to take Mrs Rustbridger's grandson to town and go to a café and eat chips (to celebrate).

So . . .

What I want to know is this - why are seed leaves so different from those which follow?
and - how can I propagate Bay?

_____

For Tomorrow

ONE GREY LACY TOP

2008-04-03T12:25:00.009+01:00

I wish Mrs Rustbridger weren't so k ind.

She's given me a pale grey, lacy top.

It was 'Buy One Get One Free' when she bought it.

And she knows (she says) I am under 'strain'.

(Lucy told her.)

(?)

I asked if she'd like to ride in my rickshaw.

She giggled and said she would come.

Didcott pedalled. We crammed in the back.

And Mrs Rustbridger waved to her friends.
The Syllabub Ming was so proud of and pleased with, turns out to be a weed.
Along the same row I can see there are real ones; evenly spaced, with identical leaves.
Asparagus left by the previous tenant has three new shoots; plump, green and brown. Mrs Rustbridger stared at them pointedly but, firmly, I held my ground.

Ming's broad beans are glossy and healthy. I now see he's planted four very long rows. Perhaps I could introduce them to blackfly.
(Will the firm which sells predators have some of those? - As well?)
Ming phoned.
We can visit on Monday.
Didcott's dyed Worthing's hair green.

_____

For Tomorrow

RICKSHAWS AND BOX CUTTINGS

2008-04-02T11:37:00.012+01:00

I've bought a rickshaw.

(That sounds odd. Bought? Boughten? That's better - I've boughten a rickshaw.)

Didcott was cross.

He says we don't want to draw attention to ourselves.

I said - all eyes will be on the rickshaw; not on us.

He liked that.

We've been taking turns to pedal. Worthing sits happily in his baby seat - and waves.

* * * * *

I've scrubbed (scrubben?) spiders nests from old flowerpots.

I've taken green-wood box cuttings.

I've been interviewed by yet another policeman.

Apparently (oh what a surprise! ! ! ) a neighbour thinks I'm spying on her. She says I've been peering into her garden through binoculars. She thinks I've been inspecting her washing line with the intention of stealing more of her clothes.

Maybe, on a far and distant planet, a female Martian is stomping round in one of Mrs Rustbridger's old and lacy tops - old tights arranged loosely round her ankles - skirt hitched high at the waist.

But (I asked the policeman) did he seriously think I admire Mrs Rustbridger's taste, her style . . . her anything?

* * * * *

Soon, we'll sow the giant pumpkins.

.Ha!

_____

For Tomorrow

CELLS AND LETTUCES

2008-04-01T11:58:00.003+01:00

When I lived in Newcastle, in my second floor flat, I grew lettuces on a windowsill; a token food source against the possibility of nuclear attack.

In my last moments, I would have eaten them. I would have felt independent, well prepared, and close to nature.

* * * * *

Yesterday, Ming phoned.

His cell is an upstairs room on the bus.

He has a table, a chair and a good view in the daytime - with a 'pull-down' bed at night.

There's a dining room on the lower deck and an armed guard on the door.

(There's one by the emergency exit too.)

Didcott exchanged a few words with him in Martian.

(With Ming - not the guard.)

I found that quite moving.

Apparently, he's cut his hair.

* * * * *

When there was a Greater London Council, it issued a warning to allotment holders.

Lettuces absorb toxic chemicals from traffic fumes. Grow anything you like - but don't eat your lettuces.

Ah!

_____

For Tomorrow

ATTACK OF THE WOOLLY APHIDS

2008-03-31T12:42:00.013+01:00

When I woke this morning; it was spring.

(Something about the light.)

There were clouds in the west and it had rained heavily in the night but, none the less, briefly, it was spring.

Wearily

(I had a fit on Saturday evening and it takes several days to recover)

- but joyfully - I crossed the room and looked out.

My garden is aerial.

(And easily misunderstood from below.)

From above (which means from my bedroom window) anyone would immediately see its inconvenient paths are really a small, knotted maze.

The tops of bushes, of roses and Bay level with my bed.

So does the Spanish Broom.

Aaaaagggghhhh!

Woolly aphids!

Too early?

Well - hover flies already are hovering there!

These aphids cling close; no space between.

- Pretty in the distance (like lavender spires).

Close up - gross.

* * * * *

Greenfly are ok.

If they mass on the rose which crosses the gate, I take my broom, lift it skywards - and sweep.

I don't clean my house. Not much. Not often.

But gardening is different.

So are Woolly aphids.

I tried binoculars.

Too weak.

Ming's were in the shed.

Too strong.

Woolly aphids? Can't tell.

* * * * *

Didcott's surviving though.

It was the first time he'd seen me have a fit.

Not that it's very dramatic.

(Just tiring.)

It was supper. Didcott saw me slump, leapt up; caught me, fork in hand.

Nearly impaled my face.

Didcott was frightened by my fit.

It was his fork which terrified me!

* * * * *

There was a rainstorm, that night too.

(The so-much-rain-falling-in-only-five-seconds-it-seems-as-if-the-world-is-falling-apart kind of rainstorm.)

Worthing was ten for an hour. (So he could have a bath, I think.)

As I fell asleep, I noticed his silhouette in front of the opened window; next to Didcott's.

I could hear them sniffing the rain.

(They were facing east, rain comes from the west here; nearly always.)

* * * * *

A kindly prison guard phoned yesterday.

Ming is worried about the Syllabubs. Please would I visit them?

* * * * *

Just wait, I said, until I can walk more than ten feet again. Then, I said, I will.

_____

For Tomorrow

MESSAGE FROM DIDCOTT:

2008-03-30T14:33:00.007+01:00

For Tomorrow

IF NOT THE MOUNTIES - WHO?

2008-03-29T11:05:00.012Z

Miss Martin phoned again this morning.

She wanted to know if I'd seen any Mounties.

(Ha! Ha!)

I said Merlinprincesse had mentioned the C.I.A. and F.B.I. too.

Then, I said - the only reason I can think of why the C.I.A (or the F.B.I) would be interested in Ming - would be if he didn't have the right papers.

But Dennis Price says he can't remember ever having seen Ming's birthplace listed as one from which people need visas or passports .

(And he should know because he used to be a Law Enforcement Officer.)

- So, if neither the C.I.A. nor the F.B.I. have any reason to be after Ming - well - that leaves only the R.C.M.P.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Miss Martin drew a deep breath (I could hear it) - and asked,

"Where does Ming come from?"

She wouldn't accept 'Here' - so I mumbled.

Then she asked if we'd been threatened at any time.

I started to tell her about the lady in Manchester and her £5,000 book club and the pressed geraniums we'd received in the post. Then I realised:-

a.) I was admitting Ming's identity papers are forged

and

b.) If he didn't need them, why did I buy them?

and

c.) The U.S.A. has different laws from us - so the advice probably doesn't hold good here anyway.

Help!

I stopped.

I thought.

Then, I said "Hello, hello, hello, can you hear me?" several times.

And rang off.

Then, I put more runner bean seeds in the airing cupboard and trimmed the box bushes.

We've run out of cereal.

The cats have fleas.

_____

For Tomorrow.

DID THE 'MOUNTIES' KIDNAP MING?

2008-03-28T07:20:00.016Z

Rather a pleasant morning.

(Despite the rain.)

Took a walk round the garden.

Where I:-
1.) Inspected the roof of the shed. (It's got worse but nothing can be done until the wood's dried out and the weather has improved.)

2.) Regretted the wind-scorch at the top of the bay tree. (It's too high. Can't do anything about that either.)

3.) Felt pleased that the bed of dwarf cyclamen looks so healthy (!).

4.) Chased some cats.

* * * * *

Miss Martin phoned.

This inspired me to put even more runner beans in the airing cupboard.

(We should have a good crop this year.)

Miss Martin says she isn't convinced it's the M.O.D. which has taken Ming. She can't find anyone at work who knows anything about it.

(Except for her chauffeur - and he says he just happened to be passing when the prison bus came by and thought, since he was there, asking Mrs Rustbridger to make a cup of tea would be a friendly thing to do. He hoped it had helped.)

(I said it did.)

Miss Martin asked if we have any enemies.

I told her Merlinprincesse has advised me to watch out for the Royal Canadian Mounted police.
Miss Martin asked if I had seen many men lately with red jackets and big hats riding up our street on horseback.

No.

(But they wouldn't have come like that, would they? They'd have worn camouflage!)

_____

For Tomorrow

AN EARLY START AND MADAME ALFRED CARRIERE

2008-03-27T12:08:00.010Z

I'm getting tireder by the second.

Last night, late, the phone rang.

A crisp voice at the other end (female).

We'd be collected early this morning; taken by car to see Ming.

(Good. Trains and lay-bys don't mix!)

But I wish she'd explained 'early'.

The car arrived at five.

I woke the children and found Didcott had aged a few years and Worthing was eight months old.

(Or around that.)

I wanted to scream - "Why? Why now? What's wrong with being ten? Isn't it nice being ten? I thought you said you like throwing coats on the floor and not washing!"

But the driver might have heard.

(He was in the kitchen, taking cereal packets from the cupboards and making tea.)

(I expect he's used to helping families like this.)

Didcott carried Worthing to the car while I went into the garden and took breaths of morning air.

The buds on the Madame Alfred Carriere Rose are distinctly red. They always are. Why? The flowers are cream. (Though with a revolting pinkish tone.) It was a mistake, this rose. It's big and floppy and I didn't want pinkish when I bought it and I still don't.

(Monet would have liked it.)

The buds on the apple tree are bigger now, even bigger and more open than yesterday, but I still don't know if they are for flowers or for leaves.

I began to pull one open to see but the driver came and quietly said,

"That isn't a good idea. Not really."

(Of course, he was right.)

Then he said it was time go.

More tomorrow.

._____

For Tomorrow

MPDCs

2008-03-26T10:13:00.009Z

Gosh! I'm shattered!

I know why Mrs Rustbridger has been complaining about our shed. Last night, it woke me!

She's right. It is noisy! Very!

I stumbled to the window - and there it was, trembling, rumbling and glowing green.

Personally, I think going to investigate that shed in the middle of a dark, cold, lonely, Ming-less night was exceptionally brave.

But I did it!

One of the washing machines was finishing its cycle.

Didcott was there, waiting to open its door.

"Well," he said, "You were bound to find out some time."

What?

"These machines are Multi-Purpose-Distance-Clothes-Swappers".

What?

"MPDCs. Mega-powered by Sock-Drive.

"It's all quite straightforward, once you know.

"You put clothes in - and they are washed in the usual way. Then, they zoom through space to Mars, where they are taken from a corresponding machine and replaced with clothes of a different size."

(That explains lots of things!)

"And all this on 'green energy'!"

(Sweat from smelly feet - hence, 'Sock Drive'.)

"Well!" I thought. "That certainly clears up one of the major mysteries of the known universe."

I returned to bed; a wiser woman.

There was one mystery left though.

"Why," I wondered, as I fell back to sleep, "does Didcott need baby clothes?"

(One more germinated tomato.)

_____

For Tomorrow

LINDA'S TAG - TEN THINGS YOU DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT ME UNTIL I TOLD YOU

2008-03-25T09:49:00.044Z

1. Age - 47yrs.

2. Marital Status - First marriage.

3. How did we meet? - Well, Ming simply happened to land in my shed. It was a Thursday afternoon - and I was weeding. He opened the door and walked into sunlight for the first time on earth.

It was shock at first sight.

I offered him a cup of tea (as one does!) - and, well, you know the rest!

4. Education - Minor public school in Kent.

(i.e. Fee paying but not famous.)

There was no stress on academic achievement but we did grow our own food and learnt how to preserve it for winter. We also learnt to cook. (Which is unusual.)

Quite a large number of its ex-students are now working in horticulture and market gardening.

A few have opened their own whole-food restaurants serving organically grown food.

5. I rely on the mundane to keep me calm. On rainy days, knitting fulfills the same function as gardening.

6. My first income came from knitting school jumpers.

7. I find small talk difficult. That's why cups of tea are useful. They define the length of a visit.

If you enjoy a conversation, you can offer your visitor 'another cup' - except sometimes you can't - because offering a second cup is frequently used as a polite indication that your guests should leave.

8. I live in permanent fear of catastrophe: nuclear war, famine, that kind of thing. By growing vegetables, I provide myself with delusions of safety.

By growing bushes and plants I help save The Earth - simultaneously creating somewhere pleasant to sit while waiting for the disaster which (almost inevitably) will come.

9. I like tatty clothes. The best scent is bonfire.

10. I like my hands to be coated with dried earth - then I don't mind picking up worms.

Ron asks for my life in six words:-
.
Me, Ming, Didcott, Worthing, Garden, Blog.
.
Yes, I think that sums it up pretty succinctly.

CATS, CHILDREN, TOMATOES, PRISONS

2008-03-25T09:39:00.014Z

Cats have been scaling the Madeleine d'Angevine vine; shredding its bark en route to the top of the wall.

Claws have been sharpened on the olive tree trunk and the mulch is a cat latrine.

Flag iris at the front of the house is removed to a nettle bed (specially planted!) - and last years teasles are iron railings - ossified; white since autumn.

(Robert, Caddis and Ceres - beware!)

* * * * *

Life reflects life.

* * * * *

Tomatoes have been bothering me too.

'Experts' say Moneymaker and Gardener's Delight are naff.
So why do people grow them.? I wish I had Moneymaker and Gardener's Delight to complement my Tomato Il Pantano Romanesco seedlings.

(Especially Gardener's Delight.)

Miss Martin says she had nothing to do with Ming's arrest.

She says she has no idea why her chauffeur was lurking in Mrs Rustbridger's porch - but she'll ask him and let me know.

She asked how the runner beans are doing.

I was evasive.

Later, a man phoned. He said he was from the M.O.D. Mobile Prisons Unit; I'll be allowed to see Ming in two days time. Would I like to be taken to the bus (where it will be parked in a lay-by for the convenience of visitors) or have the bus brought to our house?

I imagined making tea for a bus load of prisoners - and said I'd prefer the layby.

He said he'd arrange things - and will 'get back to me'.

I'm feeling cheered already and trying not to sit by the phone!

_____

For Tomorrow

RAILINGS, WRAPPERS AND YET MORE SOCKS!

2008-03-24T14:34:00.015Z

If I were rich, I'd erect elegant iron railings round the ground by our house.

But I'm not.

(So I can't.)

Robert, Caddis and Ceres live on the other side of Lucy. If they see a newly planted plant; they unplant it.

(Ceres is wrongly named.)

If Robert, Caddis and Ceres see an un-tended garden, they trample its weeds and leave sweet wrappers to show who was there. If Robert, Caddis and Ceres didn't live on the other side of Lucy - I might not be so deeply wracked with the desire for iron railings.

But they do.

(So I am.)

Another blade of grass has emerged next to the parsley and more tomato seedlings have germinated in the airing cupboard.
I think I'll put extra runner beans in their place.
(I don't trust Miss Martin's methods.)
This morning, I bought clothes in a charity shop and tried them out in the washing machines in the shed.
An hour later, they were still there.
On the other hand, I had a 'profit' of three more new socks.
Now I have six.
Three pairs.
Didcott saw them on the line.
"If I were you," he said. I'd put them back. You might need them sometime."
Tomorrow, I'm going to the M.O.D. to confront Miss Martin.
I must gather courage.
It must be done!

For Tomorrow

SOCK-IT-TO-EM BABY (HAPPY EASTER!)

2008-03-23T07:34:00.023Z

Ron Eklof has sent a haiku.

(Everyone's trying to cheer me up.)

I find no relief

Amid the dead nasturtiums

For dear Ming is gone

They're not dead!

Hmmm.

Worthing says - "It's the thought that counts!".

(He's the gentler of the two.)

I say - "Ming has not 'gone' - he's simply absent - temporarily."

In fact - today, he phoned!

(All mobile prisoners are being given the opportunity to call a relative of their choice, free and for three minutes - because it's Easter!)

He says the prison bus is moving randomly around the country like a Cruise Missile - or an Armed Response Unit.

No-one can tell where it's going or where it's been.

(Security.)

At night, it stops in lay-bys. In the morning, it moves on.

Ming's seeing quite a lot of the countryside this way. He says he's 'put in a suggestion' that they try Europe next. The driver's thinking about it.

Time ran out and the phone went dead.

Mrs Rustbridger has been to the police because, she says - I "stole her washing".

Now, whenever she walks past our house, the children shout

"Sock-it-to-'em-baby"

from an upstairs window.

(If they catch me laughing - I'll pretend it's because of the man with the giant pumpkin.)

(HAPPY EASTER!)

_____

For Tomorrow

PARSLEY, PUMPKINS AND MR SUBJUNCITVE

2008-03-22T12:50:00.021Z

The parsley has grown its first proper leaf.

It's curled. Like a baby's fist.

Good.

Parsley can generally be trusted to 'come true'.

(Unlike humans.)

(Or squash!)

Lucy brought me a packet of pumpkin seeds this morning. She said she couldn't find any fully grown pumpkins in the shops - it’s the wrong time of year - but she hopes the seeds will do instead.

I told her about Mr Subjunctive. He's written to say he's never been given a pumpkin - even though he lives in Iowa. (America.)

Lucy pointed to his caveat:-

"I suppose,"
he says,
"I haven't ever had a crisis where receiving a pumpkin would have helped. Though it's not like getting a pumpkin is likely to make things any worse. . . . "

Lucy urged me to look properly at the picture on the packet.

Ah!

Pumpkins can make things worse.

A little boy is sitting on top of a giant pumpkin - a pumpkin so big it almost hides the man crouching behind it.

The text along the top invites me to 'Beat the World Record' and grow one that's even bigger.

"This pumpkin," I said, "Is already too big!"

For what? - Lucy asked.

"For my garden," I said. "It'll be as tough as old kale and as tasteless as flat leafed parsley."

She went home.

Maybe next week I'll give her something to put in her garden!

There's an idea!

_____

For Tomorrow

BROOM BRANCHES AND SOCKS

2008-03-21T12:03:00.021Z

The wind's got up again.

It's all grey and horrible outside.

The Spanish Broom has been stretched sideways.
I keep bumping my head against a branch.

I'll have to saw it off.

(The branch.)

I can't stake it because a stake would have to go into the ground precisely where the compost bin is and I can't move the compost bin because there isn't anywhere else to put it and because Ming isn't here to help me move it and he is the only person whose help I would want in anything.

* * * * *

Oh!

* * * * *

The buds on the apple tree are swelled. You can see them distinctly from the house.

Flowers or leaves?

My brain is fossilised!

* * * * *

I told the children they're to be called Didcott and Worthing. They can chose which is which.

And I asked if they'd 'grow up' for a few weeks - so they can help while we're in crisis.

They said they like being ten.

* * * * *

Yesterday afternoon, Mrs Rustbridger made a cake and brought it round.

She brought her washing too.

She said her machine is broken.

I said

"Sorry, I'm using mine".

She said

"What about the ones in the shed?".

Hmmm.

We went to see.

All three were mid-cycle so I made coffee; we ate cake; and waited.

When we went back to the shed, the machines had stopped. There was one sock in each.

"Well," I said briskly. "We'd better get these three socks on the line before it starts to rain again."

Mrs Rustbridger put her clothes into the machine.

* * * * *

Two tomato seeds have germinated already!

Removing our nightwear from the airing cupboard has clearly worked!

* * * * *

When Mrs Rustbridger came to collect her washing - it wasn't there!

She's not pleased.

_____

For Tomorrow

MISSING MING

2008-03-20T11:04:00.023Z

Can you believe it?

Within three minutes of Ming being taken away in a mobile prison, Mrs Rustbridger arrived at our door with a flask of tea. She'd even brought cups.

I was startled.

(I wasn't friendly.)

But she had tears in her eyes - and was adamant she had nothing to do with the M.O.D. .

- She'd complained to Environmental Health. Yes.
- She'd informed the School Authorities and Social Services about our children. Yes.
- She'd reported a suspected 'Change of Use'. Yes!

- Yes! She admitted to all this but she wasn't - she really wasn't - in collusion with the M.O.D.

I invited her in.

Then Lucy came round. Mrs Rustbridger had brought only two cups - so I made tea in my teapot and got three mugs from the cupboard.

I said I wondered what Americans do in a crisis. Lucy said she thinks they give each other pumpkins.

* * * * *

After they'd gone, I went and peered behind the cooker. The night before, Ming had knocked over a coffee pot and grounds had splashed up the wall.

I went and looked at a stain on the living room carpet - where Ming had spilled tea.

I went and looked at the burn marks on a nasturtium in the bathroom - Ming had spattered it with toothpaste.

(Interesting that - toothpaste must be lethal for nasturtiums if they get too much of it!)

Then, I wondered how Ming was getting on.

Then, I wondered why the first lot of seeds in the airing cupboard had germinated well but the second batch had failed.

The temperature was constant.
I'd kept all seeds moist.
I'd used the same pots.
The same kind of compost.

Then - I realised. The first seeds had been alone. But, after I'd seen Ming wearing my flowery dressing gown, I'd begun to use half a shelf for nightwear and knickers.

That was the only variable.

I took them out.

Then I went and talked to the Syllabubs.

I'm missing Ming.

_____

For Tomorrow

MRS RUSTBRIDGER AND THE CHAUFFEUR

2008-03-19T13:03:00.015Z

This morning, Ming was taken away in a double-decker prison van.

While the M.O.D. police 'helped' him on board a policewoman from our local station was assigned to me.

"Double-Decker Prison Vans are a new idea," she explained enthusiastically. "They're cheaper to run than ordinary prisons - no local authority rates - and they're versatile - they can be used as tour buses if there's a dip in demand for custodial sentences."

Apparently, it's a pilot scheme for 'not-violent' but 'highly sensitive' criminals.

I said "Ming isn't a criminal. Nor has he ever struck me as highly sensitive."

He appeared at a window on the top deck, sat down - and waved.

"Hey!" I said to the policewoman. "Is there any chance you could ask him, before he goes, where he put the new packet of beetroot seeds?"

She radioed a message through.

We could see a guard walk along the deck and exchange a few sentences with Ming.

The policewoman listened into her walky-talky.

"He says he can't remember where he put the beetroot seeds," she said. "But he wants to tell you that both your children are boys - and are called Didcott and Worthing."

"They're jolly well not!" I said.

As the bus moved away, Miss Martin's chauffeur emerged from Mrs Rustbridger's porch.

"I've asked your neighbour to make you a cup of tea," he said.

Then he walked off down the road.

I went into our house, slammed the door and went straight to the airing cupboard.

I've tipped all the pots of un-germinated seeds into the rubbish bin and have replaced them with tomatoes.

This afternoon - I'm going out.

_____

For Tomorrow

TOMATOES CAUSE QUARRELS

2008-03-18T12:12:00.017Z

Ming and I have quarrelled.

(We never have before.)

It was at the garden centre.

Ming needed green manure. I wanted tomato seed.

(At least five varieties.)

He said - there isn't room in the garden - and it's too shady.

I said - we're not putting them in the garden, they're for the allotment.

He said - there isn't room on the allotment.

He said he wants to put in more onion sets there.

I said - that's a waste of space. Onions and potatoes can be bought in shops but the only way to eat tomatoes is to pluck them in the sunshine and put them straight into your mouth.

(They don't grow tomatoes on Mars. It's not warm enough.)

He said - he'll need space for broad beans.

I hate broad beans.

We compromised.

He bought his green manure.

I made do with a packet of

Pomadoro / Tomato Il Pantano Romanesco

(Perhaps I should learn Italian!)

I wanted seeds for purple carrots (with orange middles).

He said he wouldn't have room for them either.

Ok, I said, I'll grow them along my edges.

(I'm already growing beetroot in between box bushes. I too am running out anywhere to put anything!)

I wanted Sorrel.

He said we could pick it wild.

I said dogs might have peed on wild sorrel.

He said I'm too fussy.

(!)

Then he wanted a packet of beet spinach.

I said beet spinach is alright up to a point - but it grows tough if you don't eat it at precisely the right moment and we might not want to eat it at the right moment - we might want to eat something else.

He said the red stalks would remind him of Mars.

I said "Rubbish".

The man ahead of us at the cash till had his arms full of plants from the 'FOR SALE' table.

He was chortling away and telling everyone in the queue about his 'bargain'.

The plants were dead.

I'm glad I'm not married to him!

_ _ _ _ _

For Tomorrow

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

THE FOUR INSPECTORS

2008-03-17T09:38:00.015Z

Four men from The Council came this morning.

By chance, they arrived almost together.

The first was from Environmental Health. He said a neighbour had complained about our 'noisy shed'.

(When he said it, he smirked.)

I invited him in.

A man from The Planning Department rang on the bell. He accused us of turning our home into a Youth Hostel without applying for a 'Change of Use' certificate. A neighbour, he said, had witnessed drunken teenagers on our path about two weeks ago.

I asked if he'd like a mug of tea.

Then came an Inspector from The Education Attendance Service. (We used to call them 'Truancy Officers'.) A neighbour had reported children 'playing in our garden during term time'.

I put the kettle on.

The bell rang for a third time. A 'neighbour', apparently, thinks we've been fostering at least one child without going through the proper procedures - so, here, was a Social Worker to 'check up on us'.

I suggested he joined the other three men at the kitchen table.

He asked for coffee.

It was like a party. They drank their elevenses, ate biscuits, compared notes - and grew hilarious.

We are, they've decided, 'a nice, conventional family'. What a shame it is (they commiserated) that we have to put up with such malicious neighbours!

Only the one!

If I hadn't been able to offer them chocolate digestives - things might not have worked out so well. (Or if they hadn't arrived together!)

The parsley seed in the pot with the blade of grass in it that I first mistook for parsley - has germinated.

_ _ _ _ _

For Tomorrow

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

THE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY RUNS OUT OF POTTING COMPOST

2008-03-16T11:18:00.021Z

I've discovered something interesting.

All Martians start life with 2,428,272,000 seconds in hand - which they can live in any order they choose.

After that, time must be consecutive.

I think I'll go for a walk.

_ _ _ _ _

The horticultural society is changing suppliers; so its stocks are low. It only has compost for cuttings.
Ming bought an electric toothbrush yesterday and has been cleaning earth from the wrinkles in his face.

He looks much better; less like a music stave.

There are seventy-seven years in 2,428,272,000 seconds.

I asked Ming how many he's got left.

He wouldn't say.

_ _ _ _ _

For Tomorrow

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

THE NASTURTIUM LEAF, THE BAD, THE GOOD AND THE PHILOSPHICAL

2008-03-15T14:15:00.006Z

Over the last few days, I've been worrying about a nasturtium. There are eggs inside a leaf. If I pluck it, the plant will grow slower. If I don't, the infestation may spread.

I've other worries too:-

1. No more seeds have germinated; possibly because I'm using last year's compost.

2. I can't afford new seed compost in the same week as potting compost - and I need both.

3. Last year, I bought purple flowering chives by mistake. (I wanted white.) Should I use them (simply because I have them) or start again?

(I can't ask Ming. He hasn't grasped the aesthetic of the garden.)

4. Mrs Rustbridger phoned and said she'll be reporting us to the council. (I don't know why.)

But good things are also happening:-

1. Ming has reverted to his familiar age and the children have been ten for more than a week now. It gives a more settled atmosphere to the household.

2. We are thinking of going on holiday. Ming would like to go camping on Purbeck.
(The weather has turned mild and the wind has dropped - but there is almost constant drizzle so, I don't think it'll be possible.)

3. There was a thrush in the Bay Tree when we woke up.

4. The wind moved the clematis to the north side of the wall.

a. Good - I won't need to prune it so harshly.

b. Bad - it's the north side.

Sometimes, gardens are confusing!

_ _ _ _ _

For Tomorrow

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

I CONFESS IGNORANCE: MING WORRIES FOR THE FIRST TIME: AND THE BEST WAY TO GERMINATE RUNNER BEAN SEEDS (PERHAPS!)

2008-03-14T10:57:00.014Z

Ben Perkis has taken the over-use of adverbs by the scruff of the neck and has transformed it into a creative and humorous art form.

Here's one of his 'poems':-

Easily he played the game
And winningly he won.
Clappingly the people clapped
And my mate's a Hun.

I wish I were able to tackle difficult tasks so boldly!

I don't know the sex of our children (still!) - but I'm embarrassed to ask.

It wasn't until late last night that I plucked up courage to tell Ming about Mrs Rustbridger seeing the washing machines.

We were in bed. Ming sat up; alarmed.

"Then she knows!"

I told him not to shout.

I also said I too had been wondering about them. What they are for?

"What are they for?"

For a moment, he was puzzled.

"What d'you think they're for?"

"I don't know."

(I was beginning to feel miserable.)

"Washing, of course!"

Then, he went to sleep.

(At least, he shut his eyes.)

I've planted runner bean seeds in pots and left them in the garden.

Ming says Miss Martin says they do better if you start them early - but slowly. She says it's better than putting them in the airing cupboard.

(Since when has she been our 'Gardening Expert'?)

_ _ _ _ _

For Tomorrow

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