It’s a busy time of year for gardeners and writing falls by the wayside. Torrential rain and thunderstorms should have given me more time with my quill, but I have been to an author coffee morning and been roped in to a quiz and that was just Saturday. We came fourth and I answered at least one question – ‘Gone With The Wind’ – what was the question? An interesting round was ‘Cheese or motorway services?’ which proved surprisingly difficult. At least the rain has filled my water butts and the wildflower wheelbarrow is flourishing.
Oil painting
If only ChatGPT could come and improve our real gardens, not just the photos.
Water colour
The world cup is happening right now. If you don’t know what they are playing, answer at the end. Having a big garden tidy up I found this mini Scotland player and that night they won their first match, so now he is my mascot. I’m the only person in my family with no known Scottish blood. When I consulted them for a name for the wee one Cyberson 2 suggested Red Jock McPlastic. Scotland play again on Friday night. Cyberson 1 has the shirt.
Today it was announced our government intend to ban social media for under sixteens. Which made made me wonder how over sixties would feel if we were banned. I’m not even sure I understand what constitutes social media and what does not. I would certainly be upset if we were not allowed to use WordPress. Lots of us have little addictions like Words With Friends – above is a typical score for me, but it’s still fun. Also useful as you can check if other friends living alone are fine – if they play back first thing in the morning you know they are still alive.
This scene may look peaceful, but any moment now a herd of schoolteens and bicycles are going to appear over the horizon as school finishes. Eavesdropping as I was walking home I heard one boy say ‘But What are we going to Watch?!‘ another said ‘I bet under sixteens are going to march on parliament on Saturday.’
The answers are The first colour film to win an Oscar and Football.
Presenting a garden at the flower show is not simple, you want your flowers to be at their best all week.
One of this year’s themes was recycling and judges were thrilled with this reuse of decking.
The designer also used a classic bench from the end of the twentieth century.
A popular theme in the modern garden is rewilding. NO Mo May is in full swing, but it’s okay to mow some of your lawn so you can find your way to the washing line.
It takes great skill to create the impression that you have let everything run fashionably wild; a pot of blue paint has been used to great effect.
The blue theme unites different parts of the garden.
No gardener wants wheelie bins spoiling the view and this bespoke bin store attracted great attention from visitors to the show.
As did the recycled Belfast sink, originally from Birmingham New Street Station circa 1960s, though provenance cannot be proved. It has hot and cold running water, appreciated by gardeners and dog owners alike – fits most dogs. The terrace was created with recycled kitchen tiles, circa 1980s.
All the hard work and months of planning is worth it when the judges come round with the medals.
The home of Cousin Ruth stood out in the row of large Victorian terraced houses. The front garden was packed with raised beds of vegetables and wigwams of runner beans. Lottie had never had much success with vegetables so she was impressed. Before she could peer closer as Tilly and Wesley ushered her up the garden path, the front door flew open and dogs and children hurtled out.
‘Just stand still’ said Tilly, doing the same.
Wesley obviously knew the routine and swept up an escaping toddler, kicked the front gate shut and herded dogs and children through the front door.
‘Wait for the dust to settle’ added Tilly.
As the sound of barking receded Cousin Ruth emerged. She enveloped Lottie in layers of crocheted poncho and guided her inside, warning her to mind the toys. Lottie stepped over a huge dinosaur and dodged a strange lurid pink wheeled contraption. More dogs appeared and she would have been happy to pet them if she had been wearing casual clothes instead of one of her smart book launch outfits.
‘Come through, come through, Kizzy made you some cakes at Brownies.’
Lottie hoped the baking facilities at Brownies were cleaner than the kitchen she glimpsed through a half open door. She was led into a large sitting room where adults were gathered. Tilly appeared at her side.
‘Lottie is a famous author, I’ve read all her best selling novels.’
Nobody looked very impressed.
‘I don’t have time to read’ said Ruth.
‘Hey Lottie, did you hear the joke about the dumb blonde who was asked if she would like a book for her birthday… No thanks, I’ve already got one.’
‘Dad, you can’t say that, politically incorrect.’
‘But I like dumb blondes, I married one didn’t I?’
‘Down Flossie, sorry Lottie, she gets over excited, Bernie put the kettle on. Bernie is Geoff’s son, Geoff is husband number three, he has a large family too, but when he moved in here we weren’t expecting to both have adult children moving back in or to have grandchildren dumped on us. This is Oliver, husband number one, still good friends and Elspeth his wife, they both wanted to meet you and of course some of these grand brats are his as well. Sally did you order the pizzas, is that Dominoes you’re talking to?’
‘No, just booking my flight, I’ll do the pizzas next.’
In the midst of the confusion a child thrust a puppy into Lottie’s arms. It was undeniably cute and fluffy. Her handbag dropped to the floor, but at least she hadn’t dropped the puppy. She felt quite protective, how could this tiny being survive the tumult around it.
‘Sit down, sit down.’
Lottie was thankful to sink into a spot at the end of the sofa, a cosy corner of cushions and puppies as another tiny dog was placed in her lap. For a moment she thought longingly of her little cottage waiting for her return on Sunday evening, but as she looked around she realised she was experiencing life with a capital L. Life went on, it had not ceased when Callum died. Although her head was spinning she felt new ideas tumbling into her brain. Her next novel with the renegade vicar would feature love for real people; families tossed up into the air like a broken jigsaw and tumbling down into a different picture of blended families and romance for each generation. This family certainly seemed very happy.
As Lottie imagined her first chapter her thoughts were interrupted by a piercing scream and a child sobbing.
‘Granny, Tommy pushed her down the stairs, not me.’
Lottie clasped the puppies, she felt a maternal need to protect them from Tommy.
Ruth darted out into the hall and yelled up the stairs, hauled back a child from entering the adults only zone, then shortly returned with two mugs in each hand.
‘Is tea okay, Bernie forgot to ask what you like.’
‘Fine, fine’ said Lottie, wondering where she would put a mug or how she would hold it with her hands buried in warm puppies.
‘I’ll put it on the mantlepiece, we keep all hot drinks up there. Now, I hear that the fairies were a complete surprise, Callum never told you, he must have been in complete denial, which is a shame, because we would have believed him now we have seen them at the bottom of our garden.’
Lottie wondered if this was a joke, had the whole thing been an elaborate joke, but Ruth’s expression looked genuine so she couldn’t resist asking if she could see them.
‘It doesn’t really work like that, we have never told the children.’
‘That’s a relief… I mean I guess you need to protect them.’
‘That’s why we grow the veg in the front garden. When we bought this place we loved the long garden, even though it had run wild. I jokingly said I was going to look for fairies down the bottom of the garden and imagine my surprise when I saw them. We didn’t want to harm them, make the same mistake as Callum’s parents, so we built a wall across and never kept cats. Occasionally I see one on top of the wall watching when the children are playing in their part of the garden, I’m sure they wink and wave. In recent times we have put cctv up and observed them properly and secretly. We never told anyone and we tell new neighbours we are rewilding. Can you imagine scientists wanting to examine them or worse, fairieknappers…’
Charlotte paused, she was even beginning to believe in fairies herself. Was this for real? Her novel about Lottie was meant to be light hearted and fun and if people believed in angels and people used to believe in fairies…
Tilly was guarding the door as Ruth tapped her mobile phone then showed Lottie a picture. Little people, very tiny when you saw them under dandelions. Not like children’s Victorian books, actual miniature people, but with wings, genuine wings, they were flying. Lottie gasped and glanced at Tilly and Wesley, the only adults who were probably sensible.
‘Wesley, have you seen them, is this all for real?’
‘Well the Church of England doesn’t do Fairies but…’
‘They do angels’ said Tilly ‘so why not believe in fairies.’
‘Yes, all God’s creatures are entitled to their own lives so we have a sacred duty to protect them Lottie.’
‘Their secret is safe with me and I certainly won’t write them in my novels, I don’t think my readers’ credibility would stretch that far.’
When I arrived, Uncle Brian was furtling around in the compost heaps.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Potpourri potential.’
He was a man of few words.
‘I can’t imagine you will find anything fragrant there.’
‘Potpourri for insects, a quick way to attract all sorts of creatures when you are rewilding your garden.’
‘The customers who come to Grandma’s rose nursery are unlikely to be into rewilding are they?’
‘Sell on the internet, besides, roses are going.’
‘Going?’
‘Yup, going same way as your gran.’
He turned his head and nodded towards the Victorian brick tool shed, behind which smoke spiralled into the air. Now he had drawn my attention I noticed the divine scent of wood smoke and wandered in that direction. My grandmother, his mother, had requested she be cremated and her ashes placed in her favourite rose bed, but the cremation was not taking place till next week. I tiptoed round into the yard to be confronted by a tangle of burning rose wood.
‘Has there been some kind of rose disease?’
I did not know much about Grandma’s beloved roses, but I knew she inspected every leaf and petal for signs of spottling.
‘No, told you, roses are going, getting a rotavator in, then let the grass grow, the seeds blow and the weeds return.’
It was the longest speech he had ever made.
‘Does Mum know what you are doing?’
‘Nope, doesn’t need to, this was left to me.’
It was true that Brian had been the one who lived and worked here and frankly we assumed Grandma left the nursery and house to him as the prospect of him working or living elsewhere was unlikely.
A few weeks later we took Grandma’s ashes with us to the Chelsea Flower Show where she had had many successes with her prize roses. We met up with her good friend Gerald, a Chelsea Pensioner who had a red rose named after him. He was wearing a ‘Captain Gerald’ rose bud in his button hole and took us to a quiet spot in a rose garden where the Pensioners liked to sit and where three of his rose bushes took pride of place. No one was around so we quickly interred the ashes in the bed and left Gerald to his memories.
A few more weeks passed and we hadn’t heard much from Uncle Brian, but that wasn’t unusual. Mum thought we should pay a duty visit soon. That evening we sat down to watch Gardeners’ World, commenting on roses that weren’t as wonderful as Grandma’s.
‘Actually, I never really liked roses in the garden,’ said Mum ‘all that trouble and most of the year they are prickly skeletons. But birthdays, Xmas, new babies what did I always get? Another rose; climbers, ramblers, patio pots, bushes, old classics, new varieties named after us….’
‘How come we have so few in the garden then?’
‘I don’t think roses liked me, they never thrived and often died. Brian had the right idea.’
As if he had heard her the presenter moved on to the next segment.
‘While many people treasure their roses, others feel the need for a change. We visit a former rose nursery in Surrey where all the roses have been dug up and the whole area rewilded. Brian Floribunda has just been recognised as holding the national collection of dandelions.’
There was Uncle Brian standing amongst waist high grass surrounded by tall dandelions waving in the breeze.
‘How long did it take you to establish this wonderful collection?’
‘Few weeks, they pop up everywhere given the chance, quick turn around, not long to breed new varieties.’
‘How many varieties are there?’
‘Fifty Seven so far, just working on creating a blue dandelion.’
‘That sounds incredible or impossible.’
‘Not as difficult as producing a true black… got to get on…’
Uncle Brian turned away and the presenter was unable to get any more conversation out of him. The camera panned round the Field of Gold.
‘Grandma must be turning in her rose bed’ I said.
‘Especially as she never managed to appear on Gardeners World’ said Mum.
Sam was looking forward to a peaceful Friday evening after a busy week at the lab. The house was quiet, Jill was bound to be in the garden as it was her day off and the weather fine.
The back door was open and Jill jumped up from a flower bed and rushed up to the patio to greet him.
‘What’s the excitement, have you found a rare butterfly?’
‘Mother’s been!’
Sam was taken aback. His mother-in-law had died three weeks ago, peacefully, in her 98th year. He thought Jill was coping well.
‘Jill, what do you mean?’
‘I found a white feather.’
‘You surely didn’t believe all that stuff your mother used to talk about?’
‘You didn’t believe, I kept an open mind. Mum said she would send a sign if she could.’
‘A feather left by some moth eaten pigeon…’
‘A perfect pure white feather floated down just as I was tidying round that shrub Mother gave us. At least let me show you.’
Jill moved across to the kitchen door, reached in for the lop sided jug her mother had made at U3A pottery class and pulled out a very large snowy white feather.
‘Okay, not a pigeon but a handsome swan. Did you see any flying overhead?’
‘No, we’re miles from any river.’
‘Well, all sorts of things get blown in the wind. If she wanted to send a message why not something useful or tangible.’
‘I imagine its not easy being dead, especially if you’re new at it. Besides, there must be rules, otherwise we would all be inundated with messages from the other side.’
‘Jill, we don’t get messages from the dead because they are no more. It’s the Twenty First Century, we’ve grown out of all that stuff.’
‘You scientists don’t know everything, I felt so peaceful out there in the garden, knowing Mother was happy.’
‘That’s your serotonin kicking in. A sunny day in the garden always makes you happy and you were also thinking about your mother. I’m a physicalist what you see is what there is, that’s it. Your mother is still with you, but in your memories.’
‘We can both see this feather, how do you explain that?’
‘Your guardian angel flew over, ha, ha, dropped in to help with the weeding.’
‘Why don’t you test its DNA in your lab?’
‘I will, might even contribute to our current bird studies. Right, I’m going up to check my emails before dinner.’
Sam looked out of his office window at the patchwork of little back gardens below. He told himself he was appreciating the colourful display Jill had created in their back garden, not looking for swans or angels. He noticed something new in next door’s garden, a large colourful playhouse. The new young couple had only just moved in and already Jill had discovered they were expecting their first baby, a bit early to be buying expensive Wendy houses… then he noticed movement on the overgrown lawn. Chickens, so that must be a modern state of the art hen house, hopefully fox proof. Shouldn’t be any trouble unless there was a cockerel to wake them up. At that moment there was a fluttering amongst the drab brown and speckled hens as a proud rooster strutted out. A dashing snow white rooster with a scarlet cockscomb. Sam dashed downstairs to tell Jill the mystery was solved.
Jill was excited to see the new livestock, but held the long straight flat feather aloft triumphantly.
‘This did not come from a rooster, magnificent as his curling tail feathers are.’
Sam arrived at the lab early on Monday morning; frivolous use of the facilities was frowned upon and he did not fancy telling the others he was checking for angel DNA. But the quicker he could identify the feather as belonging to a swan or an albino peacock the better.
The results made no sense, the feather was apparently freshly shed, clean and undamaged so the results could not be corrupted. The DNA looked like none he had ever seen before, certainly not belonging to any bird. If anything it was closer to homo sapiens, yet different, not to mention the fact that there were forty six pairs of chromosomes. He had already started from scratch again and achieved exactly the same results. Far more study would be needed to venture any theory as to what sort of creature this feather came from. He could be holding unique scientific information, but how could he tell his colleagues, what should he tell Jill?
The sun was going down and my stress levels were going up. It was time to all gather, decide where we were going to perform this evening. I didn’t get any peace during the day either, had they never heard of Me Time? It was a constant ‘Let’s go down the quay’ or ‘Ah there you are, what are you having for lunch? Come on, you don’t want to eat alone…’
There was no chance to grab another bite to eat before the performance. With such a large cast you would imagine my absence would go unnoticed, no such luck. They were all chattering now, so loud I had a headache, but I couldn’t hide for long.
‘Come on, it’s a lovely clear evening, time you got in place, stick with Jet and see if you can get it right this time, we’ve got a big audience.’
I sighed, was I the only starling who couldn’t get the hang of murmurations? How I wished I was a robin, singing sweetly by myself in the apple tree, king of my own territory, friend of gardeners. What was it about starlings, always having to stick together. Even worse than the mumuration was roosting; flapping and squawking, deciding where to settle for the night, then ending up in the same old tree we always went to.
I thought longingly of the garden, robin hopping around as the gardener topped up the bird bath for him, a last bit of digging in the new bed before the light failed. Pausing, staying motionless as her favourite bird hopped closer, grabbing gratefully at the worm in the newly turned soil. Dewy eyed as she marvelled at his stick thin legs, the sheen of the downy red feathers on his chest and the strong melody issuing forth from his tiny beak when he retuned to the apple bough.
Why did I have to be reincarnated as a starling and not a robin? There’s my wife telling all her friends I have come back as her robin. Be just my luck that ‘her robin’ is that awful Derek down the road, who died the week before me in that mishap with his lawn mower…
Mellow yellow? You would be far from mellow if you suffered from Xanthophobia, fear of the colour yellow. Xanthophobia from Greek xanthos, yellow .
If you could prove your condition you could opt out of work and many life situations. If we are to be an inclusive society we would need to take drastic action to help sufferers.
There may be a good reason for fearing yellow; which came first, the yellow warning signs or the danger?
In the work place even a cleaning job would be out of the question with those yellow plastic boards warning of wet floors. The police are no longer the Boys in Blue, but the Girls and Boys in yellow. High Viz jackets are standard wear for many jobs now and yellow tabards are worn by everyone from stewards at events ‘Look at me, I’m important and I’m not afraid of yellow’ down to school outings.
Even if you have obtained exemption from work, yellow lurks everywhere. Roadworks going on outside your house? All the council vehicles will be bright yellow. Going on holiday or a day trip? You are sure to come across a yellow bus or even an amphibious vehicle.
You will certainly not be safe in the garden, the Xanthophobic will pray for a cloudy day so the gazanias don’t open up and mow the lawn every day before the dandelions get a chance to pop up and attract those awful bees with their furry yellow stripes. Turning our lawns to meadows must be a nightmare for the Xanthophobic community.
Check before you visit your friends who have been decorating, what colour schemes have they chosen? It seems there is more to choosing paint than we imagined.
‘For all its decorating potential, yellow should be used with due consideration and care. Yellow primary action is to trigger emotional responses,’ says Karen Haller, colour psychology specialist. It has an impact on the nervous system. As a result, yellow is the strongest colour in psychological terms.
While yellow is a colour to use with caution, decorating with yellow has a relatively long wavelength and is emotionally stimulating, making us feel confident, positive and optimistic. but the wrong tone of yellow can lead to feelings of irritation, nervousness and depression.’
If you are Xanthophobic better not come round my house. But Xanthophobics would not be reading this as my website is yellow. I don’t know when it became my favourite colour. In the late seventies it was orange and brown, later it was pink. I’m not sure how I settled on yellow.
How does such a phobia start? Perhaps early exposure to Mr. Men books, the constant company of Mr. Happy and Mr. Tickle…
Do you have a favourite colour or a colour you cannot abide?
He’s back! Yes, having just realised lockdowns are over Baz wants to reconnect with other bloggers and hopes to get more than one follower this time. In a series of exclusive interviews and blog shares I find out, or try to find out, what Baz has been doing since 2020.
‘Hello Baz, the last time I spoke to you we heard you were working on your second novel Panzombic.’
‘Yes I have just finished it so I thought I better do some blogs to publicise it. You can buy it on Amazon for £25.’
‘Is that the hardback?’
‘No, the Kindle version, paperback £50, hardback £100. It does have 853, 231 words, so you will get your money’s worth.’
‘In 2020 you were hoping to start a new series of blogs about your garden, Baz’s Blooms.’
‘Yes, that is the blog I am sharing today, I have done a lot of work on my garden during lockdown.’
BAZ’S BLOOMS
‘Thanks Baz, I’m sure many gardeners will be inspired by your garden and we can also see you have plenty of leisure interests.’ Enjoy further blogs from Baz soon including his good food guide, shopping hints and his take on Thursday Doors.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 