It’s never too early to get the young interested in Gardening, says Silas Silage, our resident green fingered guru.
One of the joys of gardening is the opportunity to share one’s expertise with the young. I learnt many tricks and wrinkles from my old grandad, and I never miss an opportunity to pass on my knowledge to the next generation.
A lot of your young people today could be rescued from a life of vandalism and racing around in cars, drinking cider and getting young ladies into trouble if they spent more time in the garden with an experienced older hand. (OK, we get the message –Ed).
From time to time I do a bit of gardening at a local private girls school, which gives me an ample opportunity to educate some very posh young ladies on Mother Nature’s ways. And delightful creatures they are, mostly.
I always dress appropriately when I go there as it’s important to be well turned out. I have some very natty camouflaged battle fatigues which I got from the Yeovil boot sale, and I must say I cut a fine military figure, although you have to be very sharp-eyed to see me, such is the subtlety of the dappled medley of greens, browns and yellows.
This week the bursar, Major Carstairs, has asked me to have a go at the “bower”, a secluded leafy garden behind the swimming pool. There’s a wrought iron gate covered with ivy and a notice “Private – Upper VI Form only”.
I let myself in and my, what a beautiful sight. A close trimmed lawn, and beautiful scented arrays of flowers, lavender, sage, elephant grass, climbing roses, neat box hedges and some nice topiary on the privet, all set about with garden chairs and sun loungers. A statue of a man carrying a spear and wearing a sheet, with laurel leaves around his head stares at me.
It’s a hot day, and the bees are a buzzin’, so I prepare to take my customary pre-work forty winks before getting on with the weeding. There’s no-one about, so I crawl into the shade, ease my braces, take a quick peg of elderflower whisky, and shut my eyes.
I dream I am in heaven, with beautiful angels administering to my every need, bathing my temples and bringing me tasty treats, grapes and stuff.
I must have been asleep for some time, because I awake to the tinkling sound of young laughter. I open my eyes to realize I am surrounded by young ladies reading books and chatting, and none of them are wearing anything but little string things round their bottoms. Wouldn’t do for Mrs Silage, that’s for sure.
Omigod, they’re virtually naked! Oh dear. Oh dear me! Luckily they haven’t seen me.
Just then I gets a shooting cramp in my right leg. Must be the damp ground. I leap to my
feet with an agonized howl, grabbing my leg and hopping around like a mad thing. At the same moment my unbraced trousers fall to my knees. “It’s a man!”cries one of the girls, and they all take up the chorus like a treeful of jays. It’s a man! It’s a man!
feet with an agonized howl, grabbing my leg and hopping around like a mad thing. At the same moment my unbraced trousers fall to my knees. “It’s a man!”cries one of the girls, and they all take up the chorus like a treeful of jays. It’s a man! It’s a man!
One of them is on the phone. “It’s a man!” she cries.
Best to beat retreat. I grab my hoe and knapsack and begin hopping to the gate, trousers at half mast. Just then I hear a siren. Must be a fire somewhere.
I get to the gate, which is suddenly flung open to reveal a couple of blue uniforms ,and before I know where I am or can explain I find myself in the back of a squad car handcuffed to a large policewoman who…. (To be continued –Ed)
Presumably Mr Silage’s next post may concern the joys of prison gardening unless those wishy washy liberal magistrates simply bind him over to keep the peace. The Rat thinks they should throw away the key in this sort of case.
It would be a gross miscarriqge of justice if your correspondent went to jail for this one. Will someone organise a petition to save him?