As my ‘other half’ (or ‘BFS’ *- as he has somewhat predictably requested that he be abbreviated to for the purposes of this blog) pointed out, my two previous posts were nothing short of potty mouthed.
Point Taken. So i’m going back to my bloggin’ roots for this post. Back to The Garden.I’ll behave myself in there, no effing and jeffing. Honest.
My very middle class mum (God Bless Her)used to say that effing and jeffing was a sign of a limited vocabulary.
I do get her point.
But my Dad’s side were Common as Muck , I’m Northern , and there’s a fair smattering of Irish ancestry in the mix , so I do feel that effing and jeffing is not only something of a legitimate recreational activity but also my birthright.
I will try not to do it though.
As I am still afflicted by The Pomph any heavy duty getting down and dirty in the veg bed is out of bounds, so I have had to content myself with a bit of light pottering .
Watering , mainly (greenhouse only – rain, out)Also general fannying about (removing the odd bit of bindweed from poor strangulated plants).
There is something to be said for pottering, for ‘having a potter’ in the garden. Several well worn cliches spring to mind. Stopping to ‘smell the coffee’. Or the roses. It can be good to take time to look , rather than to do.
Today I saw the first rose of Summer.
I’ve got a bit of a love /hate thing on the go with roses to be honest, and it’s always been that way.
I like certain types of roses ,but only in certain contexts , and usually because they have certain connotations for me , or because I find them to be evocative of particular times or places.
For instance : yellow roses, i like.
Well they are kind of trashy, kind of camp : yellow rose of texas , Doris Day Films ,Patterned fifties silk scarves – that kind of thing.
Then there are those sugared- almond-pink, blowsy, old fashioned roses that just make me think of Audrey Hepburn in that scene from My Fair Lady where they are all at the races – all white trellis and 1960’s black and white striped faux regency pastiche, bonnets and bustles and billowing candy coloured roses.
The divine Miss Hepburn had a potty mouth in that scene too, if I remember correctly.
Then there are old, old english roses , rambling roses, dog roses , English(or Welsh)country garden roses – take-me-to-an-Elizabethan garden roses where it all gets a bit Greensleeves .
There are plenty of other roses that I simply can’t warm to. At least not in the petal. A bit too garish ,a bit too Corpy planting for my liking, a bit Bournemouth Promenade.
(‘helpful’ critique from BFS : ‘what have you put your old nan tin on there for?’ )
But ,perversely, I also quite like them for that, and even more so if they are splashed over an old biscuit tin, technicolour style.Or Southport seafront. But that’s just my camp side having a moment. I have a few of those.
In the Welsh garden we have several varieties.
Most of them we inherited from the previous garden angels. They had , loved and tended this garden for over forty years,and clearly enjoyed a corpy rose or two. Nowt wrong with that.
This has always been an honest garden, a working garden ,a garden that provides and is worked.
Everything in this garden is right for it, including the roses.
They were here before me. Who am I to move them ?
So,here we have the very first rose of the year. Much has been written of roses, they lend themselves well to literary courting.
There is something poignant about a full blown rose, so beautiful yet already dying.
Looking Into this rose today I felt the temporary nature of beauty , the temporary beauty of nature and the need to celebrate life , Carpe Dieum,while we can. Because – well, you know why.
Here’s to roses, eveywhere.
*BFS – don’t ask.
(it might be Big Fat Shit though)