The tabebuia is on its way out, sadly, but together with the wisteria, it has reliably heralded spring again. I’m making a little peace with Walter the turkey, but not much. I’ve thwarted his orchid-wrenching by repotting the ones he’s scattered in hanging baskets. His taste for heliconia roots is getting on my nerves, and in my pots, too.
My strawberries are magnificent, little bolts of sweetness, and I refuse to get into a macho discussion about their size with my 6-year-old neighbour. (His may be bigger, but we all know that’s not everything.) Peas ripped out, along with the lettuce that went all bitter in this ghastly dry spell. (It’s still trying so so hard to rain. But not.)
Won’t be long till it’s time for chickens. Just waiting for the carpenter fairy to arrive and create something out of all the raw material that’s waiting at the end of the garden. The hoarder I live with has acquired an old concrete sink. What to put in it? I’m thinking a bog garden with arum lilies, but don’t know how they’ll go in the shade. Or if they’ll be ok next to the chooks.
Next jobs: bananas, a garden down the side, plant out a block of corn, and all the usual maintenance.
