At Nancy Nightingale’s today we planted out more bulbs, dug up dahlias for their winter sojourn and said “NO!” and “DROP IT”, on repeat, to Scooby the puppy.
Whilst stuffing the compost bin with the defunct dahlia vegetation, I rescued some seed heads, certain that my collection needed a boost. Which of course are the thoughts of a delusional idiot. Still, it makes no difference, room for another little bag and they will happily join the throng. When I got home I (unusually) remembered that I had stuffed them into an empty Gladious nanus bag and then into my handbag. I tipped them onto a piece of printing paper and started to process them, breaking open the pale husky layers to reveal the dark potential within. The problem is, where do I stop? I have plenty sorted, more than plenty if I were to be honest. But there is a nagging voice whining in my subconscious; what if one of the rejects, the seed not yet in the “to be dried and stored” pile is The One. The outstanding specimen, the one that folk will swoon over, will arm-wrestle each other just to get a glimpse, who will remortage their homes for a slender tuber. But can I be bothered to continue my search on this dismal afternoon when a new novel beckons and the chance of dahlia breeding superstardom is slim?
Luckily there is a handy equation to help in such trying circumstances:
For those of you unaccustomed to the intricacies of pure mathematics/high-faluting nonsense, I will simplify it for you. The amount of seed extracted equals the potential for a humdinger divided by ennui.
A few more wouldn’t hurt. You just never know. And I can always share my treasure.