Off The Edge Gardening

I am not sure I approve of naming storms.  Is it (foolishly in my mind) to foist human characteristics on these tumults of skinny isobars?  If so, I would say this Imogen gal is having one heck of a hissy fit. Definitely not bessie mate material.

What we need on days such as this is a furry magnolia bud.  Luckily I was keeping one in reserve in case of such eventualities.

It seems a shame to remove these memories of flowers past, but it must be done.  The first hundred are therapeutic, the second hundred are a little more challenging.

As I always strive to be considerate to the most sensitive of you creatures, I must advise you to consider carefully before you proceed.  This photo is a little misleading.  You will find no talk of camellias here, in fact there is no garden content at all in this post.  No flowers, no trees, no compost, no soil. Turn back now if this offends, quick, flee before it is too late.  Don’t be too hasty though, this is a tale of nurturing, growth and inspiration.

Last night we went to a musical production by Ilfracombe Academy at the Landmark Theatre.  We were given tickets by our neighbour, whose lovely daughter was performing. The production was Our House, written by Tim Firth with music by Madness, a morality tale, centering on choices and their repercussions.  The soundtrack is one of my youth, songs as familiar as Happy Birthday or Three Blind Mice. To those performing it, I would imagine, these tunes would be as alien as a Beethoven symphony.  Never one to reject a freebie, the promise of a glass of wine and a gossip, off we trundled through the monsoon to the theatre.  Little did I imagine how much I would enjoy this evening.

What impressed me most was not that it was a great production, which indeed it was.  It was clever show, with polished singing, dancing, acting, displaying emotional maturity.  I wouldn’t want to single out any one performer in particular, although it is tempting. The leads were undoubtedly talented and charismatic, their support equally so, smattered throughout the play were golden nuggets including the hilarious car wash boss, the charming tap dancers, the hiss-inciting baddies and the surreal nun and priest duo.

But it was so much more than that.  What struck me most was the magnanimity.  Each and every one of the cast was valued and were aware of it, that was evident in their performance. There were potential West End actors alongside those who may never tread the boards again, and they were all embraced into the fold. Every performer was valid and valuable.  They hadn’t been press-ganged, they were there from choice and it shone forth like a heart warming beacon.  To me this embodies the guts of theatre, the very essence.  Slick? perhaps not, but surely slick is for unimaginative fools.  It was joyous, celebratory and real.

When the curtain eventually came down, it was to the sound of cheers, whoops and horrays, the glow of unbridled pride and perhaps the odd tear.  Every single soul in that theatre was better than they had been when they first walked though the door.

The lessons that these student have learnt during this production must be immense, immeasurable.  Each and every performers’ talent was mined and exhibited.  Their strengths were nurtured, be it comedy, pathos, singing, dancing, centre stage or in the chorus. Unabashed, unfettered.

Of course we must acknowledge and applaud their tutors, guides and mentors.  I am under no illusion that at times heads were hit against (sometimes) metaphorical walls.   Their skills in persuasion, encouragement, teasing out the last vestiges of talent, must have been monumental.  And all whilst battling the fug of teenage hormones.  Fair play to you, medals should be coming your way. Please accept one from me.

This event showcased everything a young person should be, and should be encouraged to be.  Not constrained,  less “calm it down” more “let it rock”.   Channel all that youthful energy, shout, jump up and down, misbehave a little, dance, live.  I don’t want to be you, but I loved seeing you being allowed to be you.  Thanks.

Have we featured a primrose recently?  Yes?  Have there been raindrops?  Yes?  Has there been a cunning combo of both?  I thought not.

Have I mentioned before just how brilliant I am?  Before Christmas I asked Mrs Bun exactly what her plans were for the unsightly pot of manky leaves that had sat in the greenhouse for the past year.  She explained that it had been a gift, had never flowered, and held little sentimental significance.  Bin it then, I said, with love.  The pot was duly removed, plonked down on route to the green bin and forgotten. Yes, you have guessed it, above is the self same plant.  The photo was taken today having spent the last two months outside in rain, frost, wind and combinations of the same.  Of course this was none other than the famous “last resort” horti trick of threatening a plant with the compost bin/bonfire/recycle in order to inspire it to blossom.  What did I tell you, pure brilliance!  And if you believe that ……

By the way, my first day back was great, creaking a little now though!

So it has arrived, as I always knew it would.  Today is the last day of what I so pompously called a “sabbatical”.  The noble list of chores was touched upon but not completed.  There has been plenty of relaxing and a fair smattering of indulgence.  As a last kapow, we spent the last couple of days “down south”, in the delightful town of Topsham on the Exe estuary.  It was the perfect winter treat, a nice hotel, great gig, a couple of glasses of red, the moistest carrot cake in the world and no rain.  Now I have to face reality.  It has a habit of returning to bite you on the bum.  At the risk of sounding like a creep, I am actually quite looking forward to it.  Early night tonight!

I can’t remember if this is the seed head of a zephyranthes or a habranthus.  It doesn’t really matter though, my point is still the same.  Seeds are lush.*

*Translation for those of you not familiar with the terminology of the west of England, lush means mighty fine.