On yer marks

The arrival of Spring is a onestepforward onestepback process. The days are slowly getting warmer, but the winds are strill and bitter. I have trimmed, repotted, fertilised and weeded. All is ready. The African Violet on the sill beside my computer is a joy in waiting.


The avocado and the fig are filled with Thomas' 'green fuse'. Remember when the avocado was but a sluice of slime in a bottle?

And the olive trees are being their usual mediterranean selves: promising much, flaunting their fertility, but wisely producing much more than they need 'just in case'. Let's hope they all thrive during my absence in La Republique.

Tid-bits

The northern side of my courtyard is a wall of a garage for the third (top) apartment. This Currawong is a regular client. The gutter is overhung by a large tree of some sort which drops berries and leaves by the bucket load. The get trapped in the gutter. The Currawong knows that beneath the litter is a rich moist compost which breeds worms. He madly digs the litter out, tossing it over the edge, and digs out the worms. It sends Sellie bananas! I caught her the other day chasing him half-way up a tree.

Why is it blurred? It was maybe 4pm but still tons of light. I think I must have jumped each time he made the quick tossing action.

Hose in hose

When I lived in Canberra (1974 - 1978, inclusive), I bought my first house in the inner southern suburb of Curtin, although in those days there was no need to use 'inner'. The back yard faced NE which was perfect. Along the back of the house, I grew tomatoes, and zucchini, and capsicum and we lived off Ratatouille.

Along the western lap'n'cap fence I grew roses. Or tried to. Helen, a friend of my husband's from his uni days, was a rose devotee and introduced me to all the nurseries in the Dandenongs, especially the ones who posted boxes chosen from a catalog, a bit like an Abbott e-Bay. I planted them so far from the fence, and so far from each other.

But roses are 'just so' plants. They are like the maiden aunt who comes to visit, with her white gloves, and perky millinery, and stockings with elegant seams. Roses are all perfume, and no soul. And, they have thorns.

When we moved to St Ives (1978 - 1998), I planted azaleas. Red azaleas like Goyet, Only one Earth, and Red Wing. White Azaleas like White Bouquet and Alba Magnifica. No thorns. No princess mentality.

This is a Red Wing.

Natural geometry

I managed to break up a clump of these and now have about 20 smaller plants scattered throughout the garden in small pots. Their winter garments are gradually deepening in colour, with the delightful flush around the gills. August is the month of preparation. What I reap throughout the summer, so I sow in this last month of the fallow.