Apples

 

I have no right to speak of this, for I  meter out death to slugs and snails.

I have shouted out aloud that such creatures are not welcome here, and hoped that the grisly piles of their broken brethren under the buzz of bottle green flies would help translate my words, but still they come, and so still I murder with the snip of scissors, the burn of salt, the scald of water or the quick flattening action of a grubby shoe.

I have tried nematodes, organic slug pellets, and long ago industrial slug pellets. And still they come treading over foil and broken eggs shells as if I’ve laid out a welcome carpet for a stately trail of silvery slime.

I want them gone. I want a Pied Piper to call a tune and for them all to follow him, so a pansy flower might bloom and sunflowers no longer stand on short stalks in my garden beheaded.

I would prefer them a painless exodus as killing them leaves a festering ulcer in my soul, and I take no pleasure in it.

So I am hoping that the rapacious mouths of this year’s tiny frogs will seek out my enemies tiniest infants and then feed and gorge .

So, with this partly in mind, I have nurtured my pond’s tadpoles spending many hours watching their antics.

 

The ones that are left in the pond are taking their time to change.

There is a plant with long thin leaves like the many spokes of a bicycle and these slower tadpoles  swim together into its gathering apex. Many of them here then sun themselves as they practice breathing air. Nearby the tiny frogs that are able to crawl out gather preparing for a challenging steep climb out of the pond close to the wall.

Today when I checked on them there were fewer tadpoles in this their favourite spot, and it was only when I glance a second time that I see them. Apples. Small unripe apples bobbing on the water.

There is an apple tree in my neighbour’s garden, but its branches have been hard pruned and so do not stretch over the pond. So these apples haven’t simply fallen in. Someone has picked them. Someone has stood looking over the small wall and has then deliberately dropped them upon the tadpoles as if they were bombs. And then someone enjoyed doing this over and over again.

The neighbours whose parcels I take in and sign for.

But I have no right to speak of this, the bombing of the tadpoles, for I meter out death to slugs and snails.

Outcome

 

Read first

http://deepestdarkestengland.blogspot.com/2011/06/one-with-character.html

There is another rattle of my letterbox.

I rush downstairs.

I can see the outline of a man holding a bouquet of flowers through the glass.

“These are for you” he says. “I’m so sorry about your car.”

He has roses and lilies and ferns and carnations all tied up with a pinky-peach bow.

“There was no need,” I protest. “You should give them to your wife.”

But he insists on giving me the flowers.

And they do look lovely.

I had no idea that I would be given a bouquet today.

In the Veg Plot

 

There was a plant growing in my vegetable patch. It had a kind of beauty. I did not know what it was. It could have been something I’d planted, but most likely it hadn’t been. Still I watered it and nurtured it and it grew. As my beans were nibbled away and my onion sets remained stubbornly the same size and my strawberry plant bore two pitiful flowers this plant held out delicate leaves and stretched for the skies towering over my fly bitten carrots and dying chives.

It was when it flowered that I became suspicious.

I yanked it out and threw it onto the heap.

But I still wanted to learn its name.

Some time ago a friend had given me a book of wild flowers. It was a lovely second hand book called ‘The Observer Book of Wild Flowers’. It is a delightful book. Its previous owner had marked with tiny pencil ticks the flowers they had spotted: silver weed, hare’s-foot trefoil and red campion. All glorious names.

So I hoped that mine would be in there too.

It was!

It was described perfectly: the leaves bluish green in tint. Umbels and involucre- bits that hang down beneath the umbels.

I read on to the end to see if it was edible only to read: “The entire plant is evil-smelling and said to be poisonous.”

And then I read again its name which described both me and the plant at the same time: Fool’s Parsley!

The One With Character

 

There is a rattle of my letterbox.

I have a friend who sometimes posts notes through and so I rush towards the stairs thinking it is her. But there is no sign of a note.

Then I suspect it’s yet another junk mail leaflet, and I’m about to give hell to whoever ignored my polite notice asking that none should ever be posted through my letter box. But there is no sign of any leaflet.

Instead there is the outline of a man just visible through the glass.

He’s a neighbour of mine. One of the few to know my name.

He tells me he’s just hit my car and, “Can you come and have a look?”

“Oh no, not my car,” I moan, “Just a minute.”

I close the door on him while I get my keys. I’m imagining the worst: a buckled front, twisted metal, a complete write off.

He is quiet and apologetic as he points out the damage. It’s a scratch about a foot long on the driver’s side right at the front. I can see black and blue paint.

“I had to pull over,” he explains. “A car that was coming up the other way gave me no where else to go. I’ll pay for the repair. I’ll clean it all up.”

I laugh.

I point out the bird poo on the bonnet that has worked like acid through the paintwork. I show him the two deeply etched lines down the side that another neighbour, I was told, gouged out with his keys. I point out the dent in the bonnet when at almost zero miles an hour I rolled into a tree trunk thinking I was rolling only into a bush.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I tell him not to worry. That it gives my car character. That it is nothing to worry about. That the car is old. That it has done nearly 100,000 miles. That it is not worth repairing. I tell him not to worry about it. In fact I say it was probably my fault for parking too far away from the curb. But when I check I discover to my surprise that this time I have parked the wheels flush against the kerbstone.

Then I thank him for telling me, and tell him not to worry about it again, but he is sorry and troubled.

“It gives my car character,” I tell him. I then also tell him that I would have said exactly the same thing even if the car was brand new.

He is sad, quiet and apologetic and I know that his wife will feel upset for him too.

It is only when I get back inside and then make a cup of tea that I start to think about his car. How much damage did my car do to it? I then feel sorrier for him, for I know these neighbours are very proud of their cars. They clean and polish them lovingly, and then they tinker with their insides and with their frills and bonnets.

But I have no idea which one is his car, or what make it is, or even what colour it is. He would be shocked if ever he heard this.

I only notice and love my car. The one with character!

Tadpole Kaleidoscope

 

The froglets like jumping buttons are leaving the pond. Hundreds of them! Three or four weeks back they were like guests that had outstayed their welcome and I longed for them to pack their tails, grow their legs and leave.

And now there is an exodus of tiny frogs and others queuing to attempt the rather steep climb out of the pond and I’m now sorry to see them go.

I’m left with the remedial group: the real slow and lazy ones who see absolutely no need to hop it. They too are developing legs so I guess in a month they will be gone too.

One of the fun things has been watching the tadpoles eating the fish food. This particular food (intended for koi carp) floats on the surface of the water like multi-coloured marshmallows and the tadpoles quickly learnt to swim on their backs and nibbled on them. So many at a time did this that anyone just glancing in the pond would have seen tiny marshmallow-sized fish food travelling in every direction, creating a wonderful visual work of ever changing art.

A tadpole kaleidoscope.