In Your Garden...

Our gardening expert writes:

Spring again and so much to do! People often make the mistake of getting out too early after a wet winter and doing permanent damage to the garden by soil compression and root abuse. Those in the know will spend this time more wisely, indoors by a warm fire, planning for the months ahead.

Lawns - always a problem area and the main subject of anxious inquiries that fill my postbag. The simple solution is to be done with it all. Dig out to a depth of 3 feet and replace with a selection of the mineral substrates available from all good garden centres. Ornamental chippings and decorative gravels can be laid in any pattern, from expressionist whorls to the formal elegance of the Tudor knot garden. Reds and blues are very this-year and can be relied upon to provide a blaze of colour throughout the summer.

Paths - to avoid expensive worm-damage, paving slabs (along with tiling and brick laterals) need to be floated on to a solid bed of concrete to a minimum depth of four feet. Highlight dangerous corners with Burglaroff Instablind arc lights.

Hedging - boundary shrubs and border planting are the source of many gardening problems, from afternoon shading to autumn leaf-drop. Now is the time to grub these out and replace with maintenance-free Eezi-care pre-formed foliage in longlife plastic. Such jobs are best done with a mechanical digger (available from Plant Hire outlets) and care should be taken to remove all traces of root.

Birds - are a perennial nuisance, the high ammonia content of their droppings capable of destroying whole sets of garden furniture. In my first job, as apprentice to a municipal authority, I was tasked with patrolling parks at dawn and dusk to pounce on and throttle the blighters with my bare hands. These days there are more humane methods available, including regular blast-spraying with Tweetoff or Burdkil, to mention just two.

Finally, on a caring note, to those who, after a lifetime of digging and hoeing, are now left wheelchair-bound or suffering with chronic back pain, do not despair. The answer lies in raised beds. Get yourself some railway sleepers; key ends together with simple mortise-and-tenon joints for permanent fixture; bottom-load with layers of hardcore and subsoil, top-filling with good quality loam to a minimum surface height of 5 ft (allowing for ground settlement); sit back and enjoy.

This week's jobs: harp-tickle rooting base on tired brassicas, part-layer & splug-shaft cutaneous tubers, light chit only till change of clocks.

Next month: installing that Hot Tub.

Good Gardening!

"He does this every year, but I can tell you from personal experience - there's not much under that lot!"

Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch. of Cant.

Hullo,

Justin here. Whilst the young man with the wire in his ear is of the opinion that many of the ordinary people who attend my weekly surgery are, and I quote, workshy layabouts who only come in for a warm and free biscuits, I remain convinced that I can help spread the good news by offering a non-church environment wherein the confused, the worried and occasionally the head-lice ridden amongst us can seek advice and succour. It is sad but true that the interior of the average church puts people off. They feel inhibited by the architectural splendour – especially in churches like mine, which, let’s face it, is a bit of a humdinger. I had intended calling my surgery, the SPIRITUAL surgery, but my lady wife counselled that if I did, I’d be inundated with deluded people wishing to contact dead aunties.

                       

So, this morning’s session was most interesting. The young man with the wire in his ear has the body search down to no more than 20 seconds now and I have persuaded him not to glare at my visitors. Or snigger. Or intone” ****ing hell!”

My first visitor was most trying. A man of middle years and military bearing, he wore a T shirt emblazoned with “SATP”and in brackets underneath (shoot all the poofters). I was quite prepared to enter into a lively philosophical debate with him, but he made that very difficult by accusing all clergy of being shirtlifters (whatever that might be), then darting hither and thither looking for hidden cameras and microphones. I must admit to being relieved and grateful when the young man with the wire in his ear appeared as if by magic, pressed something in the agitated fellow’s neck and rendered him all of a heap. The young man with the wire in his ear then said, “Gimme five” and dragged the gentleman away. True to his word, in five minutes, he returned. When I asked about the fellow’s whereabouts, the young man with the wire in his ear winked and tapped the side of his nose.

                          

My next encounter was a much more domestic one with an older couple (Reg and Pauline) who were very worried by the Chancellor’s announcement in yesterday’s Budget speech that the purchase of an annuity by pensioners is not now necessary and that henceforth you can do what you jolly well like with your pension payout. Pauline was especially emotional, grasping my hands and sobbing piteously. Off the top of my head I was able to suggest things like donating a significant amount to the charity of their choice, establishing a Food Bank to help the needy, or, more selfishly, taking a guided Betjeman tour of the Home Counties’ wonderful Anglican churches. It was only after they had left that I noticed the absence of my wristwatch, wallet, and a chair. Nevertheless, I do feel that the church must reach out to people beyond the Cathedral’s mighty doors.

                         

I will close this Thought for the Day by saying that I am puzzled and not a little concerned by the Holy Father, the Pope stating that he and the Catholic faith are going to challenge the might of the Mafia. Whilst this does put my own stalled campaign against Wonga in the shade somewhat, I do worry about the possibility of shoot-outs in St Mark’s Square. As the young man said, impishly, “What would Jesus have done?”

Yours ever,

Justin

Final episode 14: Bloatmingle - Per Angusta Ad Augusta (during the month of May)

Previously on Bloatmingle of the Yard... all the villains have been neatly happre'ended, and that should be the end of the matter. However...

“Well sir, I rather think that’s that,” said Spiggot, retrieving his truncheon from Bloatmingle’s surprisingly limp hand. The young constable looked hard at his boss. There was something different about him. “Cor, lumme!” said Spiggot, “’is mind’s snapped!”

And indeed it had. Chandeliers, bombs, shotguns in the boxers, poisoned corsets, ocularly challenged Scandinavians, Spiggot, rank begonias, dead Egyptians, and dreadful Dorothy Knickerthwaite had all gone. Once like a steel trap, as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel, as brilliant as an exploding nebula, Bloatmingle’s mind had switched off!

He stood, swaying slightly, and fixed Spiggot with a baleful glare. “And who the hell are YOU?” he gritted. Spiggot looked crushed. “I’m your faithful sidekick sir – PC Spiggot wiv two Gs”

“Never heard of you!” roared Bloatmingle, “And more to the point, Spittog, if that really is your name, who in blazes am I?” Constable Spiggot flinched as if to ward off a blow then saw a strange faraway look in his superior’s eye. He passed a hand across Bloatmingle’s field of vision. Nothing. No blink. No twitch. Just a blank stare into regions beyond Spiggot’s limited ken. “Huh” thought Spiggot. “Limited Ken. Played a couple of seasons for West Ham. Very left sided. Fell over a lot.”

But loyalty is a tremendous thing, as is an ability to recognize the obvious. Spiggot had these qualities in spades. He gazed again at Bloatmingle’s aimless stare. “Hmmm. Definitely lorst ‘is marbles this time ‘an no mistake”, thought the Constable. Gently, he took Bloatmingle’s arm.

And so it began. The long, slow tortuous journey back to sanity. Constable Spiggot faithfully accompanied the muttering Bloatmingle back to Scotland Yard.

News of Bloatmingle’s condition spread through the crime-fighting nerve centre like wildfire, ably assisted by Spiggot shouting,”Make way! Make way! Inspector Bloatmingle’s gone loony!” as he guided the stricken ‘tec towards the office of the only person in the Yard who could help Bloatmingle regain his senses. “Ere we are Sir. Soon ‘ave you back to normal now”, said Spiggot, knocking on the door, just below the nameplate which read, “Dr. A.W. Pinkthynge. M.D. Psychology, Drugs, and Stuff Like That.” Bloatmingle muttered, “Corsets.”

“Enter!” The voice was a deep, commanding baritone, which was strange, emanating as it did from a slight, tweed clad woman in her mid forties.

“Ah, so he finally snapped, eh? said Dr Pinkthynge. “OK, Spinach, get him up on the couch and let’s see if we can’t untangle the old brain-box, eh. I’ve been expecting this”.

“Spiggot”, said Spiggot.

“Pardon?” said Pinkthynge.

“My name – it's Spiggot”, said Spiggot.

“Well that’s nice for you,” returned Pinkthynge.“Pass me that bottle of Hydro chlorideparametacetadioxide and a syringe, and let’s get this show on the road!” Dr Pinkthynge expertly tore off Bloatmingle’s left sleeve and plunged the loaded needle into his trembling flesh. Spiggot fainted.

Over the next few weeks after innumerable visits from Mrs Bloatmingle complete with home-made spotted dick and soothing words, our hero regained most of his wits. With Spiggot’s help, the Inspector pieced together the recent events. Bloatmingle realized that he owed Spiggot much. Had the young constable not sought Dr Pynkthynge’s expert help, had Bloatmingle not spent weeks in Dunabbin, the Police Rest Home, things might have been very different. Now, here in Dunnabin’s spacious lounge, dotted here and there as it was with elderly, confused ex-coppers shouting, “Take that!”, and “’Ere, where’s me bung?” Bloatmingle felt ready to clear up any loose ends in this, the most complex investigation he had ever led.

Bloatmingle turned to Spiggot, took him by the right hand and shook it. “Thanks for all you’ve done, Spottig. There’ll be sergeant’s wossnames waiting for you back at Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” observed Spiggot. “I ‘adn’t realised they ‘ad different wossnames to ours, Sir.”

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Thought for the Day, from Justin Webly, more or less Arch. of Cant.

Hullo, Justin here.

                                   

As many of you know, before I heard the still small voice of calm  calling me to this ministry, I was a banker. I also have significant experience of the oil industry, a place awash with money and the sometimes dog-eat-dog machinery of high finance. And so it was with dismay that I heard today that the spectacularly failing Co-operative Bank is to pay its top executives millions, nay billions, in bonuses. Let us remember that very recently, the same bank divested itself of the services of its Chief Executive, a troubled soul who dabbled in drugs hard and soft, was often seen in the company of inappropriate female persons and regularly went on expensive fact finding missions, usually to sunny places noted for drugs, libidinous music and inappropriate female persons.

                                      

And so, faced with calls from my flock to react to this news of unearned bonuses, I asked myself, “What would Jesus have done?” The young man with the wire in his ear suggested, “Shoot the bastards” whilst my lady wife shouted “Bring it on!”, spilling quite a lot of last year’s elderberry/vodka brandy on the fireside rug.

                                       

But of course, as the leading cleric in this country, I cannot support such extreme views, so I sat with my companions and began thoroughly to analyse the Co-operative story so far. Had the bank overreached itself? Had it been led by greedy financiers who had secured bonus-rich contracts from Chief Executives who dabbled in drugs and sought the company of inappropriate female persons? Have the fortunes of the Bank been turned around after its near-collapse? Has, in fact, the situation become very much worse? The answers were obvious. YES,YES, NO,YES.

                                          

These sobering facts stared bleakly back at me. Through the good offices of the young man with the wire in his ear, I obtained the private number of the present CEO of the Co operative Bank and asked him how on earth he could justify bonuses for people who were doing such a bad job. To his credit, he did not trot out the usual excuse that if these incompetents aren’t paid eye-watering bonuses, they would go abroad. Instead, he told me to sod off and go sing a hymn.

                                          

Now, I am a mild man. I am slow to anger. I will always seek the way of mediation. It is, after all, that is what Jesus would have done. And so, I prayed. Prayed with all my might. I prayed for over an hour, by which time, the fireside rug was ruined and the young man with the wire in his ear was snoring loudly.

                                          

So, after appeal, prayer and soul-searching I must reluctantly agree with the young man with the wire in his ear and indeed my lady wife (who appears now to be drinking our Lidl mouthwash) and recommend that we should indeed shoot the bastards.

Yours in inadequacy,

Justin.