Mugging Up On Growing Weed

I had an odd and unsettling experience on the train a couple of days back. Three lads boarded and settled into the carriage where I was sitting. Two were ordinary boys pretending to be bad, but the third, who they seemed to only vaguely know and had hooked up with on the platform, was clearly a different kettle of frogs.

They’d all a bit of drink and weed on board. The thing with that is that it’s different to gauge what’s going on. A drunk is readable, as is a stoner. But someone who’s been mixing it? Very tricksy. Added to which the third individual (who I shall call Crazy Larry) had burns on his hands, which I would imagine were more likely to have come from smoking crack than arc welding.

They were very loud and knockabout centring their attentions on the people who were ignoring them. So far, so predictable.

On showing interest in what I was doing (making some college notes from a book on commercial veg growing) they were a bit thrown by my actually telling them properly what I was up to. Having breached their cool they responded by asking if I could grow them some cannabis if they gave me some seeds.

They were again slightly wrong-footed when I replied by asking whether I’d need a lighting rig. This started a surprisingly earnest conversation about growing weed.

And I can tell you those boys have some serious, and I mean serious horticultural skills. They could get a place at this college no bother.

Throughout all this Crazy Larry had thrown in various comments including, it has to be said, some really good specific plant cultivation details.

But all of a sudden the mood turned and he looked me in the eyes and said “Give me some money.”

“I ain’t got no money,” I replied somewhat untruthfully.

“Give me some money.”

“I ain’t got no money.”

“Give me some money.”

“I ain’t got no money.”

“Show me,” he said.

“And get my cards snatched – you must be joking”,  I thought.

We’d reached a stand off and I was expecting the inevitable.

The other two lads clearly weren’t keen to be party to this and one pointed out that there was CCTV in the carriage.

This was not enough for Crazy Larry (by now there was clearly some amount of face involved) and he continued to stare me out.

“What’s the best thing for growing weed in?” I asked. “Do you need a hydroponic set-up?”

He shook his head. The other two joined in, pouring scorn on this suggestion and we were off – the moment had passed. We were back taking about GYO. There was some dispute about whether you need both male and female plants, or should just grow female. FYI Males = white hairs, no buds. Females brown hairs, buds.

Crazy Larry then embarked on a full set of instructions for growing cannabis outdoors. Briefly -plant under protection in April. Harvest when it falls in October. A lot of it seemed to have be learned at his father’s knee including how to create makeshift cloches.

I kept the conversation going by asking various horticultural questions (to be frank, they knew so much I could have taken notes and I was genuinely impressed). The talk was still going on when the train arrived at my station.

By that time the menace had retreated, but I was still glad to get off.

Odd to think that amongst all the things horticulture has given me, one of them is some knowledge that stopped me from being mugged.

That might sound dramatic but I’ve been around long enough to know that, at one point, that was very much what was on the cards.

Now what do I do with all my newfound knowledge?

 

Hey Noni Noni

What’s that old saw about one door opening…?

Is there, I wonder, a horticultural equivalent?

If so, I have a real, live example. Feeling a bit fed up the day my galangal finally died (mainly because I was looking forward to seeing it grow, but also because it cost me fifteen quid), I got home to find that two of my Morinda citrifolia seeds had germinated.

Never heard of it?

Neither had I until I saw it on a Rick Stein cookery programme.

It has a number of common names Great Morinda, Indian Mulberry, Beach Mulberry, Cheese fruit tree and also Vomit fruit tree.

Native to SE Asia it has been spread through the world, especially the Pacific and Tahiti is one of the main growing areas.

In Indonesia, or Malaysia (I forget which) they use the green glossy leaves in cooking, but elsewhere they seem to eat the fruit (called Noni in Hawaii), but apparently only as a famine food – I gather from the last of the common names listed above that it doesn’t taste great. It has however been used medicinally and there are claims of the health benefits of the juice.

I bought the seeds over t’internet back at the beginning of the summer, nicked the thick outer seedcoats on of 3 of them and sat the pots on a sunny window sill.

Nothing.

During my period of illness a couple of months back, as well as being perpetually grumpy, I was extremely bored. At some point I found the packet of Morinda seeds. They’re about the size of apple pips by the way. When I dropped three in a glass of water they all floated; generally a sign that a seed is dead.

Three things occurred to me:

They were dead.

The seed coat was so thick and woody it might be making them float.

Floating might be a dispersal mechanism for a plant that is called the Beach Morinda.

So I left them for 24 hours to see what happened.

They carried on floating.

I was probably seriously ill for a bit because they stayed in the water for two more days.

They carried on floating.

So I fished them out, pared off thickish slivers of seed coat and put them in a lidded, flat plastic container on a bed of wet kitchen roll. This little box I placed on the floor of the airing cupboard, which is very warm sitting as it does directly above heating pipes and also because there are gaps between the floor boards.

And then I forgot about them.

A month later, the day I came home disappointed that my Alpinia had gone for a burton, something made me check the airing cupboard and I found that two seeds had germinated.

I potted both on, but only one has thrown up a shoot.

It seemed to me that they were the glossiest seed leaves I had ever seen and the little chap is getting VIP treatment.

The only trouble is that I find on checking that it could grow into a 30ft tree.

 

Umbrella-ella-ella

I got caught in the rain last Thursday.

Not like me, as I normally have my umbrella.

It’s the one thing that cheers me up when it’s raining. Not because it keeps me dry – which it does admirably – but because it reminds me of Little Boots.

Last year, after I’d expressed some vague admiration for an umbrella featured in a magazine, the OH ordered one in time for Christmas.

Fortuitously it arrived when I was out and was duly wrapped by OH & LB.

From a child’s perspective this was clearly a rather crap present and, with some kind of pre-school kind of “do unto others…” thing troubling the conscience, said little mite marched up to the sofa where I was sat.

“Do you want an umbrella for Christmas?”

“That would be great,” I replied with a grin.

“OK,“ said shortstuff, clearly puzzled by an adult pleased with what was to the younger mind a really rubbish present, but also happy that it was a good gift.

“Don’t go in my wardrobe!“ warned the munchkin and marched off.

“Hmmm,” I thought. “So I’ve got an umbrella. Now how do I persuade the little beggar to inadvertently spill on the rest?”

Nothing worked.

 

Sports Felcos

I ventured down the allotment yesterday for the first time since I fell ill; so that must be 2 months or so. I was dreading it. Not just because of the likelihood it had all gone to rack and ruin, but also in case I met any of the Site Stasi down there, because being ill for the longest period in my life was likely to be viewed as a poor excuse for letting things slip.

There was one small glimmer amongst this prospect – the thought of trying out a recent gift of a pair of 160S Felcos.

Having put it off for most of the morning on the pretext that it might start raining again, there was no delaying it any further, so I set about gathering my stuff together.

“I want to come” announced Little Boots, who had been in all morning and had cabin fever. My heart sank. When tiny, LB had loved the allotment, once announcing it to be “The best place in the world” and was content to sit and dig for worms in the mud. More recent visits have been less sedate and involved tearing around the site like a demented spaniel.

The combination of an allotment looking a mess, with a lot of work to do, a small bored child, and the village nazis clucking did not appeal one tiny bit. But, taking a deep breath I said “OK”.

But I really needn’t have worried. Of course nothing grows much in September and October, so there wasn’t as much to do as I feared. And the dull drizzly weather meant we were the only ones on site. But the best bit was Little Boots, keen to be given jobs to do. True none of these jobs engaged the mite very much, but then the Felcos appeared. Seeing that I had 2 pairs of secateurs, the munchkin did that thing that small children do and immediately assumed that was one was theirs.

The S in 160S is for Small, but it just as well could stand for Sport as they have rather whizzy black and red handles and made “ordinary” Felcos look just that. Consequently they appealed no-end, as did Little Boots until I relented and allowed some closely supervised cutting.

It ended up with LB, now an expert in pruning, being allowed to look after the Sports Secateurs, provided they weren’t removed from my full size holster. I looped it, bandolier-style, on a piece of string across the munchkin’s chest and there followed a period of instruction from the small person – marching around the site and pointing out what things the adult should cut down next.

We eventually scuttled off home with some lettuce, wild rocket, and the last few courgettes that had survived. Oh and a gherkin the size of a hand-grenade.

And, (how could I forget?) masses of Runner and French bean pods. The idea was that we would both shell them when we got in. A fun job I thought. Unfortunately I didn’t account for The Wizard of Oz being on telly, and was left alone with the beans and a pile of muddy clothes.

 

Out With the Old, In With the Spew

Seeing some new planting in progress is always exciting – wondering what’s going in and how it will be set out.

There’s a small out-of-the-way garden I pass quite often that’s described as “beautiful and secluded” place in a book I have on local horticultural topics.

You can tell that was written a while ago, because the “inspired planting” looks sad and tired now. The roses are past their best and the ornamental grasses are so congested that it’s been possible to cut them into strange shapes with a hedge-trimmer.

Or rather it was.

Walking past recently I saw that a lot of the beds had been cleared. I wasn’t expecting much from the local council – once I saw one of their men weeding with a screwdriver – but a big stack of soil improver did give a glimmer of hope that some decent horticulture was going on.

Perhaps it did, but it was certainly let down by the plant selection side of things. When I passed by a week later, it was pretty grim; they’d filled the beds with Laurel (yawn), Aucuba (yuk), a rash of nasty variegated Vincas and a rather vile marriage of Phormiums and Ivy.

What a shame. it would have been nice to see it “inspired” and “beautiful” again.

 

The Art of Browsing

Being a parent often means the curtailment, or even cessation, of many activities. Some of these are unavoidable, for instance spontaneous afternoons in the pub, others, like going anywhere without milky sick somewhere on your clothing, are perhaps not but seem so.

One that I’ve found has gone is browsing round shops. I never seem to have time, and the thought of needlessly taking Little Boots into shops full of damageable goods makes me wince.

So yesterday, being alone for a spell, I actually did a bit of browsing. Not much that much, because it was a shitty, drizzly day and I wanted to get home, but enough to make me happy. Especially when I found this print by Stanley Spencer entitled The Greenhouse.

Which reminds me, I’ve things to do in mine.

 

Sofa Saturday

Last Saturday was one of those lovely, slow, cosy days that was so good that you still feel the warmth from it throughout the week.

One of those days when much seemed right with the world.

It began with Little Boots and I loitering around the homestead, both of us lacking the energy, or interest, to get galvanised and do anything. In truth I was unable to do much because of wrecked rib-muscles due to five weeks of coughing.

I spent most of the day on the sofa. After reading the paper, the post had arrived, including my RHS certificate (which I rather smugly smiled at), along with a number of books I’d ordered for the next course module.

Shortstuff was having one of those days that small children sometimes do where, after a long week of school, all they want to do is noodle fairly quietly about the house with their favourite toys.

We ventured out briefly to our local nursery to pick up some compost and seeds. Little Boots demonstrated a keenness to support local business, by insisting (as usual) that we buy some flowers. At first I said no, but can never hold out for long. I mean, what can you say when your child is hell-bent on acquiring plants? We bought a small potted chrysanth with claret flowers. But then the munchkin spotted the bulbs.

Oh, the bulbs.

After much too-ing, and fro-ing over selection, the junior gardener chose snowdrops. I suspect this was for two reasons. They were the first ever flower LB was able to identify, and secondly because they had that fascination that small things do for small children. I think it’s a scale thing. Grinning I suppressed the urge to explain that they don’t do as well when planted as bulbs, largely because, the previous choice had been a huge bag of ghastly daffs.

We also bought some logs and returned home to make a fire and cooch up on the sofa and watch Jurassic Park.

It was pretty idyllic.

But not quite idyllic enough for Little Boots tho’, who decided it was more interesting to sort a pile of conkers into matched pairs, and then sellotape them together, for reasons that were explained to me but I still can’t grasp.

A week later and, with Little Boots away on half-term hols, the warmth of that golden day is keeping the chills of separation away.

 

I’ll Be With You, In Apple Blossom Time

 Right, so today I’m going to post something cheery rather than me moaning on about stuff.

This is part of a painting I have. It is, I think, acrylic on hardboard. It’s by a J Parker and although I sort of inherited the thing I don’t know any more than that.  It’d be great to know who J Parker, the artist,was.

But all that I really know about it is that I love it.

This is however a love that feels bit perverse, because no-one I’ve shown it to likes the painting at all.

More fool them.

 

It’s Time To Get Things Started, It’s Time To Light The Lights…..

Unbelievably Mucking Fuppets the builders cum landscapers cum bodging f**kwits, who have been block-paving a neighbours’ drive were back yesterday to do some more work on the thing.

For the record the drive is about 20ft long and they started on 2nd September. They are still working on the primary installation and not “snagging” and they are not working for really picky people since some of the edging brickwork is what I would describe as “iffy” and a brickie friend described as “f**king crap” and “the work of a c**t”.

One of the other neighbours said they should be shot (he’s a bit of a nazi).

Me?, I reckon they will get a contract to build something for the 2012 Olympic Village.

 

The Autumn Stone

Many years ago an accident put me in hospital at the beginning of February. When I was discharged a month later, the grey, wintery world had burst into life. My eyes had never seen trees so green, and I suspect never will again. At least I hope not. Not under similar circumstances anyway.

At the moment I’m experiencing the same thing in reverse. When I fell ill we were having a warm, dry sunny mid-September and although lots of plants were looking far from their best, there was still a warm decadent fizz about many of them. Having been pretty much housebound for five weeks I’ve emerged to find everything dying. And not in a fine, crisp, autumnal blaze either, but rather a wet, mouldering, cold slump of leaf-fall.

The contrast between this miserable decline and my own, albeit slow, return to vitality is not lost on me, but the former is not helping the latter.

There is so much to do in the garden and down the allotment that for the first time ever I am considering paid help. Certainly for the latter. The last thing I need at the moment is the Site Stasi giving me grief over the state of my plot.

For the first time in my life I feel old. I know it will pass, just as I know what I really need to do is get outside and connect with plants and gardening and it will reinvigorate me, as it always does when I’m feeling down. But at the moment my slow recovery and autumn’s rapid decline are stopping that happening.

Nevertheless I am not sad.

The man sat opposite on this train is wearing wrap-round shades even though he is indside and outside it’s a gloomy October day. He is also wearing a baseball cap back to front even though he is 55 if he is a day. He seems to think he’s a biker, but he’s on a slow train, not a Harley. Wanker.

Now HE is bloody sad.