The next best thing

Three potted olive trees cling tenaciously to life year after year. Despite such sorry confinement, their branches continue to shoot bravely upwards and outwards. In later months they will, surprisingly, flower. I’ve never yet seen an olive on any of them though and I’m not optimistic; on the other hand, someone told me it takes seven years for fruit to appear. If you want a provençal garden, go south. Or, try to create something lesser in Dorset.

Much inspired by a fig tree of gigantic proportions outside my bedroom window in Valence, I later purchased a ficus carica from a small man at a car-boot sale in Poole. The tree in Valence provided two crops of fruit annually. Night after endlessly hot night, we would eat at wooden tables under that tree discussing the price of melons, whilst plump figs dropped and splattered their way into conversation. My fig tree, like the olives, is also in a pot. It boasts one would-be trunk with five new branches. They are knobbly with promise and the first tiny green, pointed shoots are in evidence.

Rosemary is strong and upstanding. I have seen it growing wild, falling over ancient heat-bearing stone walls, dressed in a multitude of sharply blue flowers. Each of my plants bears a different hue of green and although there will, eventually, be blossom, it will be of the variety hindered by sea storms. I grow it to accompany lamb that is baked slowly for five or six hours. Sprigs are useless: you need a posy full. This after the lamb has been severely bruised with the yellow leafed thyme that flourishes, untended, in a nearby tub.

On the wall, I notice the soggy brown remains of last year’s geraniums which, latterly, poured from a French bread basket purchased for one euro on a long passed foreign Sunday. In the summer, the blooms were Normandy red; nomenclature that gardeners would fail to recognise unless they’d driven down the Cherbourg peninsula. A profusion of lavender grown to encourage summer bees currently displays a greyness resonant only of its unimaginative English environs. The gardener of minimal proficiency needs a fortitude borne of memory to continue.

To compensate, I dress my garden in jewels that would, indoors, appear cheap and worthless. Outside, they catch the indifferent light of the weak winter sunshine. They sparkle and send iridescent rays darting across the tiny lawn. A mirror tile attracts and distresses a loyal blackbird who views its image as a threatening competitor. I remove the tile which has added extra dimension to my small plot in preference of the real thing.

Pembroath

Pembroath. The name sounds strong, silent, possibly foreboding. It has a ring of Mandalay about it; a hint of Rochester perhaps. It doesn’t come prefixed to the building….not, for example, Pembroath Hall. Pembroath alone is sufficient. It says it all: the Master is away. Or, the hounds are howling up at the big house. The reality couldn’t be more different.

They stuck a photograph of Pembroath on my Christmas card. It’s the only postal token of the season that I kept in the post-festivities clear-out because the house looks so beautiful. In this image, Pembroath, covered in a sprinkling of fresh snow, sits proudly against a clear blue Cornish sky. There are no invasive footprints to muddy the pristine path from the wooden gate to the porch and the garden still contains enough healthy foliage to add contrasting hues.

Ask a child to draw a picture of a house in winter and this would be it: square, solid and symmetrical; a large granite Edwardian construction with three windows on the top floor and one either side of the front door. Each window is divided into four panes through which hospitable yellow light shines at night. And yes, there will be roses around that door in the summer. There are four healthy looking red and brown chickens that strut around in the day. Two disinterested cats, that have better things to do in the adjoining hedgerows than worry the silly hens, also reside here. This was the house that the farmer built for himself when his original abode failed to keep up with his changing fortunes.

Inside, the house, like its current owner, is warm and cheerful. Those alterations and adjustments that were necessary to bring Pembroath into the twenty-first century have been attended to. Largely though, we take our tea in a pleasing time warp. A real fire burns in the grate and the light is suitably dimmed. Carnations sit in a glass vase. Interesting old paintings and photographs that provoke questions and conversation line the walls with no apparent sense of order or priority.

It’s not really necessary to talk continuously. Upstairs, in the middle bedroom, a ghost goes quietly about its business. It never shows itself but its presence is noted and respected. The spoilt cats prefer the bed in the front room. Downstairs, Nanny Mollie and I sink into aged armchairs and breathe in deeply. Outside, under the watchful seven stars, crocuses are pushing their way upwards.

A delicate matter

Daughter number two is getting married. I feel I should tread carefully here. On the other hand, she's too busy reading wedding magazines and looking at the internet for possible venues, menus, dresses, flowers and table decorations to read these words. Daughter number one reports that, previously, she used to receive a five minute phone call once a month from her sister. In the last week she's had five calls, none of which have lasted less than half an hour. Daughter number one may be a bridesmaid if a) she's not too fat and b) behaves well enough in the intervening months not to warrant being sacked. Of the intervening months there are many. Currently, we're looking at June 2012. It's going to be such a busy year. We have the wedding, the olympics, my 60th birthday plus it's the end of the world according to the Mayan calendar.

My wedding was planned and delivered in six weeks. Fortuitously, I lived in the pub from where the day would start. From the locals, I was able to draw on free hair-do, free bells, free choir, free car, free cake & free drinks.Sorted. I got married at three when the pub shut, had a few drinks and canopes and buggered off to Swanage for a meal. Lovely wedding. Shame about the marriage.

Some years on, daughter number two planned and delivered hers in about seven months. We found a beautiful dress in the first shop we went to which was reduced by £600. She chose the second of two venues she looked at. She made her own invitations and bought balloons for the tables. I bought my dress and shoes from TK Max and because I couldn't find a matching hat, dyed my hair orange. The page boy had to be taken outside for a pee half way through the service and the best man had to hold the bride's veil on whilst vows were being exchanged. The sun shone and it was a lovely wedding.

Several years on and stress levels are rising. The date has changed. The town has changed. The first wedding fair looms. Daughter number one and I are planning our own event. It will be a lovely wedding.

Absent friend

(or why you bother to stop in Trowbridge to catch up with old friends over a bottle or two of rouge)

You had a phone call from P then?
Yes. Didn’t you?
No
She said she was going to phone you. She wasn’t sure where you lived. Thought you’d moved to Melksham. I told her you had but had moved back about 8 years ago.
She must know where we are. We got a Christmas card from her. Has she got a boyfriend?
No. No-one since Charlie.
Who was Charlie?
He was the hockey player.
What happened to Mick?
Mick was her husband.
Was he the one who died?
Did he?
He had one leg.
He had two legs the last time I saw him. And I don’t think he’s dead.
Didn’t he have congenital heart disease?
Who?
The bloke with one leg. He was a Romany.
Who told you that?
Morrie. He used to go up for the Gold Cup.
Who? The bloke with one leg?
Yes.
No. It was Morrie who went up for the races. So what was the bloke with one leg called?
Mick
No. Mick was her husband. He went off to Norwich with his cousin
Yes, but the Romany with one leg was called Mick too.
She didn’t have two boyfriends called Mick
No. One was called Michael. But they called him Mick
When did she meet him then?
Well, when Mick left her she came back down here and met Mick. He went back with her. They used to play darts
She’s always played darts but I don’t remember a bloke with one leg. I saw her when you had that thing with your throat.
That wasn’t here
Yes it was because we’d gone to Melksham by mistake. We forgot you’d moved.
That wasn’t here
Yes it was because you couldn’t come. Anyway, she wasn’t with anyone then
That’s because he was dead
Who?
The Romany with one leg
No. I think it was Chris who died
Who’s Chris?
The bloke that died
I’m sure that was Mick
What did he die from?
Congenital heart disease
Was she still with him?
When?
When he died
Who?
The bloke with congenital heart disease
I don’t think so. She was with Charlie then
No. His name was Mick
No. Mick was that funny one
Which Mick?
The one she married
That was a bloody awful wedding
That was the worse wedding I’ve ever been to. They were still in the Stallards five minutes before the vows were exchanged
We went to Tadpole’s to try to get away from them
They followed us
He made a pass at me
Who?
Mick
Which Mick?
The one with two legs
We’re going to be 60 next year. Shall we go somewhere?
Let’s go to Rome?

What's occurring?

This has always been a fairly light-hearted blog. Nothing political. I can't stop looking at the Jodie McIntyre interview though...has to be the most disturbing thing on TV for some time. Unless you've got a funny blue hair-style. I'm just wondering why only now, some days after the Bristol incident, women are being warned to take care.

Bit of a laugh...all that NewYear's entertainment down in Ford in Sussex. Too many obvious questions. Too many obvious felons. Talk about jumping to conclusions.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZL4eL0sLzKU&NR=1