Dogs and Roses

Evelyn Fison

Red Robin

Twice in a Blue Moon

Mum kept her promise and so off we went, first to the garden centre in lovely Brays Lane then to the charity shop beside the tattoo parlour.

Four Acres garden centre is a funny place on account of its out-of-the-way position, you'd only come across it by chance I'm sure. Maybe taking a wrong turn or something like that. Anyway....
A not too safe looking white framed structure with dingy glass and two on-site faded blue caravans with an old fashioned red telephone box sandwiched inbetween.

Inside row upon row of wooden tables loaded with plants of all colours and descriptions, some even affordable.
After the customary nod to the fair haired man manning no till, yes that's right, no till, no cash register... I strolled about looking for fair pretty things which will brighten my frontage and enliven and make interesting my back patch.
The names were many most in Latin, but being of a simple persuasion I plumped for two rose plants...And one other shrub. I understood the labels.

*Evelyn Fison. Floribunda Rose. Large Scarlet flowers.
*Twice in a Blue Moon. Hybrid Tea Rose. Highly scented lilac/silver flowers.
*Photinia Red Robin. An Evergreen. Famed for its spectacular red foliage.

As I strolled I was being followed by a big black dog with a streak of tan brown running down his neck. He was thick and slow and had 'kiss me' all over his face. I didn't. Instead I smiled and tapped his skull talking to him about how handsome he was. He knew that of course. In fact I could see by the way he relaxed under my touch that he was quite ok, quite blase.
Handsome Boy.

The cost was fair enough and then the man with no till helped me to the car where Mother sat staring at the yellow and green fields next door.
"Mind the thorns "he said
"Yes I will thank you"
And with a wave and honk I drove away leaving the dog and the man and plants I can't pronounce.

To the charity shop where I was mum's personal shopper. She sat amongst the ladies who do knitting, they sell their bits and pieces for charity you see and so as I attacked the shelves and rails mum listened as their needles rattled...

She ended up with two slinky nightgowns, a slinky dressing gown, a can of hair spray and a brown cotton floral blouse,
For me? Three tiny terracotta cats, a pair of silver earrings and a fine garden trowel.

A bit of banter with Joan about nightwear, baby oil and the awesome power of the woman over fifty.
I left laughing.

Back home and mum on the bed exhausted but pleased. I made her a quick scone pizza the sat on the back step looking at the plants.
Felt like Christmas!

Tonight I'm making liver and bacon and watching Manchester Utd v. Athletic Bilbao.
:)

Cheerio

Late Night Musings

~I was pleased to see Amelia back on the X Factor, I liked this girl from the start. And because of the rubbish surrounding Frankie ,the cute pink haired singer was centre stage once again. Might give bully girl Misha something to think about.

~I've been listening to classical music and unlike pop music, it relaxed me. Soul music though makes love to me like nothing else. I suppose I like the pain.

~War Heroes. Every year I wear a paper poppy. And this year one particular soldier is on my mind. He was killed in Afghanistan early in the year, and in one of his letters home he said he liked doing his bit for 'Aunt Betty'. I wondered what Her Majesty thought on hearing that...

~I've always thought I have a steel rod for a spine instead of a common or garden boney length, but sometimes I think God had a laugh when putting me together, He, being the consummate magician stuck inside me a cord of knotted silk. Very beautiful but very tender. Apt to tears and fraying especially when knocked about a bit.

~To be or not to be that is the question, whether tis nobler in the head to be consumed by the cushion of depression or, to take a stand against brutality and, by sticking two fingers up, remain sane. Upright.

~I have a giant chicken defrosting and will roast the poor unfortunate tomorrow. My schedule for tomorrow has changed so therefore I won't be hanging around here all day.

~There's a pink frozen rose in the garden, it's hanging its head, its once rounded pretty face shrivelled and scorched by frost...and being a sensitive person I can't bear to think of it suffering, in pain or distress. Do flowers feel? If so I wish it would die.
Overnight.

~Goodnight all:)

Graham and Eve

Blasted garden...

But it is looking better thanks to Graham and his ever ready loppers. I will need to buy an incinerator he said to make ash out of the fallen branches which will in turn go under the conifers...Which will then in turn be mixed into the soil to make a richer growing medium for my fruit and veg...WHAT! Just chop the blasted trees!

Blimey I thought as I stepped off the ladders if this is what gardening means then you can shove it. But seriously, he has done a decent job, and for little cost, well little to him maybe, but a fortune to poor old me. He has a property in Cyprus apparently, probably paid for by a host of ladies like me who would rather pull a muscle than pull a weed.

After decimating the trees we discussed my needs and wants...

He will work for four hours but only get paid for two, the deal being I help out as his sidekick. "I don't do carrying" I said. "Ok" he laughed. "You just bin stuff."
We sealed the deal over chocolate cake and tea.

I also bagged the cut price deal by going up his ladder. "First time a client has done that" he said

He talked interminably about his love of gardening how easy it is if you're keen...Planting times and seasons and tools were discussed, I of course know very little, so all I did was oooh and aaahh when he rattled on about his onions.

But credit where credit is due...

He not only trimmed the conifers with precision cutting but overloaded me with his knowledge about shrubs, vegetable gardens and apple trees. He is a keen gardener to say the very least, has had an allotment for a hundred years, that sort of thing, grows enough cabbage to feed a million rabbits and freezes a lot of sweetcorn...But....As soon as he mentioned fruit trees he had my undivided attention. I have a romantic view of fruit trees, apple in particular, I see myself walking barefooted into the garden to pick ample wet fruits, then, as if touched by Eve herself, turn them into plump sweet pies. Yes, definitely want to get my hands on a Bramley.

I also want a pear tree, Graham suggested having it out front, but I want it out back. And out back it will be. He showed me 'designs' he'd drawn, they were more like scribbles, but his heart is in the right place. "The roses could grow here" he pointed and I was lost in the glory and pain of it all....
I told him I wanted a cherry blossom tree on my frontage, he said he'd advise me on that nearer the planting time. Money came up again and I told him I can't spend more a few quid a week so I'd be eternally grateful if he could buy stuff plant stuff and manage my garden for £5 a week.
He looked stunned:)

But first things first, before the glorious planting of roses and herbs and fruits I need to buy an Incinerator.
I would therefore be mightily grateful if someone would buy me one. Lunch/dinner would be your reward and possibly a peck on the cheek.

Cooking tonight:
Shepherd's Pie
Spicy Beans
Chocolate cake and ice cream

He Tried, Bless Him

Henry knew there was something up so went to town on the wisdom.

He also tried to make me laugh and for that he gains extra points. But he was never going to succeed in bringing me out of my shell. And so he continued joshing about Bill Clinton, the lack of romance in today's horrible society and how prevalent easy sluttish sex is. I sipped my weak tea clamping my dead eyes on his, and he laughed. Laughed about his conquests as a young man, his hard mattress and his lumbar support chair. And as I looked at his easy, booze-fuelled blue eyes I wondered what he'd do if I jumped on him. Probably die happy. But that will never happen because I don't like his nose.


After a while Henry left for work and I concocted a chicken casserole leaving it in the slow- cooker, which I hope will continue to slow-cook because the Electricity men were banging on the door earlier saying the power will be switched off 'later'. Bugger.
But anyway I made it and hopefully Henry and Walter will come home to a nice dinner.

*********************************************************************************

I've just put a bouquet of lillies and roses in my bedroom and closed the door on account of not wanting Monty to crunch the petals. Cats and flowers don't mix. But oh this bouquet is something else. Lillies and I'm not sure if I've spelt that right, anyway these lillies are quite simply stunning. They're open now and showing colours like lilac and the sweetest pink, their elegant petals spiked and looking like sugar coated daggers. The pink roses are small in comparison but are equally beautiful, well maybe not...
I've never been given Lillies before but I might just start buying the occasional bunch from now on. I do have a bunch of artificial ones in the front room, but they're orange and don't quite have the same heavenly impact as the pinks. But they look good sitting on the windowsill gazing out onto the road and all the slow paced people.

************************************************************************************

I have to go now.
More tomorrow.

Shut Up Gordon. Forever.

And about time too.
Someone's said it.
It's official.
Gordon Brown is the worst public speaker of all time and in all the world.

Every time I hear that man my heart sinks. His lifeless, passion free utterances leave me head banging myself to sleep. "Go away Scotty" I beg but he doesn't, he stays, just to annoy me. He's an irritating, humour free, blundering politician whose patted down hairstyle makes him look like a Victorian murderer. And if that isn't bad enough, when he shuffles his bits of paper around, he reminds me of an awkward, blundering, ham fisted headmaster whose only joy in life is sucking on strong mints.

"Please go" I often say as his mighty elephantine hands continually tap sheets of paper on the despatch box, his irritating lumbering style at PMQ's leaves me calling for Cameron. But the prickly Scot hangs on, both to his bits of paper and his job.
So Gordon Brown, although handsome in a solemn kind of way, is the worst deliverer of speeches ever. He hasn't risen to the task of being Prime Minister, so when he finally whimpers away, he'll be left looking for a new job and possibly a new voice coach.

Thank you very much, I've had my say.

Now Mrs Horsehound's humdrum stuff.

Cooking a fat steak tonight. For pud, a diaphanous slice of carrot cake. Calorie counting...

Will re-arrange a jug of artificial roses, probably put them against the window as opposed to leaning against the wall. They'll look fine pressing their peachy heads against dusty glass.

Some daffodils are opening. Buttery sunlit yellow. Beautiful and simple. Eagerly awaited.

First Day of Autumn

And so all gone are the flimsy frocks of summer and in come the sensible woollies and sturdy boots for the gold and brown months.
I've always loved Autumn and Winter, because being a serious woman and bit of a hermit I tend to feel more at one with the darker days and take, in a curious and strange way, little bits of comfort from bouts of bad weather.
Some may say grotty weather enables me to hide away in layer upon layer of wool and leather and they may well be right, I suppose it's my reclusive nature.
I always wear a big coat and small hat when it gets a bit chilly and there's nothing nicer or more feminine than a short lady well buttoned up and wearing a silly hat in a jaunty manner.
I have to admit though I can look a bit of a plank.

Food.
I love cooking casserole after casserole, often dropping in various root veg which have no right to be there, but in my mind will add to the umptuousness of the rich sticky beefy/ lamby/chickeny thing I'm making.
And as for puddings, oh Perleeezzzze!......My life is defined by them.
I am a Pudding Queen.
Autumn and winter wouldn't be autumn and winter without a thick girthed lot of chocolate, syrup, lemon or jammy puds all lining up waiting and aching to be covered by pints of dripping steaming tongue bursting custard.
I worship Puddings.
In fact I'd get on my knees to a Spotted Dick.

Imaging if you will, 5 foot me, blade in hand, digging around and down the sides of a hot basin, and then ever so gently easing a big plump brown baby pud onto an eager plate, it is, quite simply, the most perfect sensation. I feel quite aroused just thinking about it. Of course one doesn't have to cover it with custard, one could drop a mound of whipped cream on top and then gaze open-mouthed as the slippery thick white stuff rolls down the sides and into the creases and cracks of the beauty which is begging to be eaten.
Er...where was I? Oh yes something about Autumn and how much I love it....
I do, very much.

So here I sit in my red polo neck woolly and white jeans looking out into the garden at summer's remnants, patches of brown and green grass, the lilac flowers of the Rosemary bush have come and gone leaving masses of spiky green leaves waiting to be stuck into a nice leg of lamb.
And the yellow roses, oh yes the yellow roses, they made me feel lots of things, mostly love, but they've disappeared now, and that is how it should be. But I'm going to miss their scent as I drive in and out and I'll miss their shudder as my lawnmower brushes up against them making a petal or two fall.
Sorry rose.

But mostly I'm going to miss them as I look up from my computer screen day after day because as I look out into my little garden, they won't be there any more.
The garden is going to sleep, and I won't disturb it by pottering about, I'll let it rest.
Because today is the first day of Autumn.