2516. Roses

Hudson loved growing flowers. To be fair, no one was sure he was into flowers in a big way because he liked gardening or because he won every bloom competition there was and he was into the glory of winning. Be that as it may, Hudson grew flowers and would spend an inordinate amount of time in his garden.

Coming up was the annual rose competition. There were a number of categories but the prize that Hudson had his eyes on was “The Supreme Rose Trophy”. The winner’s name each year was engraved on a little metal plaque and attached to a large shield hanging in the local hall. Hudson had the perfect rose. The timing was going to be perfect. It was as if the Fates had conspired for him to be the winner.

Two days before the rose exhibition something phenomenal happened. Hudson was in his garden and an alien space craft landed on his property. Two aliens emerged from the craft. They approached Hudson. Could he spare a little sugar? Their highly sophisticated craft ran on sugar and they were out of such fuel. Just a cup would be fine.

“Of course,” said Hudson. “I shall go into the house and get it.”

A few moments later Hudson reappeared. He carried a gun. He shot the two aliens dead.

They had landed on his roses.

2356. My Valentine

Look, I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day. It’s yet another thing invented by sales people to make a buck or two. Those who sell chocolates and roses and cards must be making a packet. They’re swimming in dough. So for that reason I don’t support such superficial observances.

My friend, Sandra, commemorates Valentine’s Day. Her boyfriend always sends her a dozen roses; although he never lets on that it’s him, but we all know it’s him that sends them. Sandra is always over the moon and goes sloppy and it’s pathetic to see her go on and on about love and nonsense. She’s like a wet dishcloth when it comes to love – all a bit slimy and yucky. I’m not surprised she would commemorate something as phoney as Valentine’s. I’m not into bogus things like that.

This is the second year that no one has sent me flowers.

1775. Life’s not a bed of roses

Some think the life of a goat is easy; especially the life of a billy goat. They think that all I do all day is stand around and eat grass. Well that’s certainly not the case.

I am the sole male in a herd of forty or so milking goats. Don’t you think that keeps me busy enough? A while back, it seems like yesterday, I butted a troll hiding under a bridge. I butted him to smithereens. Do you think I enjoyed having to do such a thing? Well, I did actually. So there!

Only yesterday, Constantia, the most productive of all the goats, went and ate a shirt hanging on the farmer’s clothes line. How selfish is that? It was the only garment available and she kept it all to herself.

To make up for it, this morning I went and had a good feed of the farmer’s roses. The red roses were the tastiest, followed by the white. I didn’t find the yellow particularly appealing but to each their own.

The farmer’s wife has just announced that I’m going to the abattoir. I suppose that’s a fancy French word for some tourist resort where they have petting animals for children. Or maybe it’s simply a lush new pasture. New horizons, that’s what I’m hoping for! Who knows what it might be? The farmer’s wife is such a snob.

1732. A not uncommon phenomenon

It was St Valentine’s Day and Molly was excited. Last year her boyfriend had given her even more than a bunch of roses. She knew that the next year (which is this year) it would be a ring.

Molly rose early. Her heart soared. She dressed in casual, comfortable clothes. No good dressing up to the nines and letting the cat out of the bag. Before she had finished breakfast she had changed her attire twice. What she wore would be captured forever on her phone. Her phone was charged. She would show the photograph to her grandchildren years down the line and say, “This is your grandmother getting proposed to by your late grandfather.”

Late grandfather! Oh! How sad that day would be! for almost inevitably he would pass on first. And she, by then not Ms Molly Liggins like today but Mrs Alexander Snooks, would be left alone in her world of widow’s weeds.

And children! She had already named all three! There would be Nicholas, and Eadlin, and Lillian. Not to mention their house mortgage free and with a lovely view. And the car! “Limousine” would be a better word. She would have her driver’s license by then. It would be the first thing her fiancé would do: give her driving lessons, in between smooching and kissing in the back seat. Oh! The future! Who doesn’t dare to dream doesn’t win.

There was a knock on the door. It was the florist delivery personage. Was this the prelude? “Mother!” called Molly from upstairs, “could you get that. I’m getting changed?”

And when Molly swept down the stairs she was greeted by a bouquet of yellow carnations wrapped in black paper and a note that said “Sorry”.

1244. The last word

Aaron and Meta had been married for a good long time. They’d often joked about what their last words would be.

“Everyone,” said Aaron, “would say a final word, even if it was spoken months beforehand.”

Meta thought her last word should be the name of a flower. “Roses” perhaps, or “Tulips”. She’d always liked tulips.

Aaron thought perhaps something practical, like “watering can” or “surgical tweezers”.

As it turned out, Aaron went first. Meta was sad, of course, but she couldn’t help but smile every time she thought of his last utterance: “slogginditchintiggle”.

Music 118: Wild bramble roses

I like wild bramble roses the best. I’m not sure why. It’s certainly not because of the prickles! I think it’s their simplicity. And also the joy of “suddenly coming across them” in all their profusion!

Listen to the music HERE!

1134. A prickly pruning

Good evening. I’m Shelagh Littenberg, and welcome to Time in the Garden – your weekly foray into the foliage.

Today we’re visiting the fabulous rose gardens of Sir Julius Barton-Klap. Sir Julius has been at the forefront of developing new rose varieties for over thirty years. He has thousands of rose bushes. There would hardly be a rose variety in existence that’s not to be found in Sir Julius Barton-Klap’s all-encompassing garden.

We have so many questions to ask the expert, but today especially we’re going to learn how to prune roses correctly. With so many roses, there can be little doubt that there’s a right and a wrong way, and Sir Julius will put us all on the proper track. Good evening, Sir Julius.

Good evening, Shelagh.

With so many roses, how to you manage to prune them all? And what is the correct way to do it?

Actually, Shelagh, I use the electric hedge clippers. Just shear them down a bit. My wife uses the weed-eater on the bramble bushes. They don’t seem to mind getting cut to the ground. In fact, they like it. It’s a family affair. For some of the more rampant climbers one of my sons gets stuck in with the chain saw. The other son uses a machete; he likes to get a bit of a sweat-up. With so many roses, it’s the only way and they seem to be able to take a thrashing.

But isn’t there a correct way to do it? I was told to always cut on an angle just below where it would bud; and to always have the bud’s position so that it grew out from the rose and not inwards.

Well I suppose if you’ve got one or two plants you could do that, but really just hacking away with the secateurs will do the trick; any old how.

Thank you. Next week we were down to learn how Sir Julius fertilized his roses, but I think we’ll give it a miss and visit the Brassica Nursery to learn the correct and humane way to stop caterpillars from eating your carefully-tended cabbages. That’s something that concerns us all. Good evening.

997. She could only say “No”

Hi. My name is Reece. With the Prom coming up there was this girl in my year called Cosima. And I was too scared to ask her to the Prom.

Way back on Valentine’s Day, Toby Washdyke sent her some roses. And I reckon he’d ask her to be his partner at the Prom before I plucked up the courage to ask. She noticed Toby Washdyke all the time, and hardly ever knew I was even there. I just had to ask her. That’s all. She could only say “No”.

So I did! I asked her! I was sweating like mad. I went straight up to her door where she lived and said “Cosima, would you like to go to the Prom with me?” and she said “Yes!” She said yes! yes! yes!

Well we went to the Prom, and next month our first great grandchild is expected! Imagine that! After fifty-two years.

“Excuse me,” said Cosima. “Was it Toby Washdyke who sent those roses? I always thought it was you.”

Listen the story being read HERE!