Was looking forward to Sunday but alas! I seem to be thwarted in all my endeavours.
I planted nicotianas in the North Walk. A cat stalked onto the newly-dug bed and left its hellish visiting card. I hate cats. They remind me of Venus. The slanting eyes, the yellow jealousies...
Give me a dog any day, and the larger the better. Fergus is wonderfully faithful and always goes behind the potting shed to relieve himself. Sometimes I suspect Henry does as well.
Telegram from Ginny: COMING TO PICK YOUR BRAINS STOP MUST HAVE COUNTRY COTTAGE RETREAT PREFERABLY WITHIN TWENTY MINUTES' WALK OF SIZZLINGHURST STOP SEE YOU AT LUNCHTIME STOP HOPE NOT INCONVENIENT STOP MOMENT OF UNCERTAINTY ON LANDING THIS MORNING STOP BETWEEN POOL OF SUNLIGHT AND STRANGE PURPLISH SHADOW STOP.
Ginny, twenty minutes' walk away! The thought chills my soul. I must have solitude. Even Henry has to be five minutes' walk away at the very nearest. Thank heavens for separate bedrooms, though candidly I would be easier in my mind if there were two towers at Sizzlinghurst so we could have one each. Preferably half a mile apart. Wonder if I could create a moat and drawbridge around my tower, but fear it would lack the grand scale required for aesthetic success and look somehow suburban.
Trust Ginny to come hurtling down on a Sunday, when of course Mrs Gosling is at her Pentecostal meeting. There is probably nothing in the pantry except a slice of her cold tongue.
Inform Henry that Ginny is coming down to luncheon in search of property advice and he informed me briskly that he would be 'closeted' in the library all afternoon. I know there is absolutely no chance of my winkling Henry out of his closet so the whole burden of Ginny's visit must fall on me.
Visit pantry. A few carcasses strewn about. Put me in mind of the Peninsular War.
Heartened by the sight of a large cheese only a little nibbled by mice. Cut off the nibbled section and threw it to Fergus: he caught it in mid-air with the most tremendous chomp. Reminded me of Lady Utterline's way with a scone.
I have one hour before Ginny's arrival and I cannot decide whether to weed the North Border or bleach my moustache. Hesitating before the looking glass, I heard a timid knock below and found an urchin with a note.
'Dearest Darlingest Loveliest Vera,
Have booked into The White Hart Staplehurst as I am in the most tremendous pickle and desperately need your help. Come soon! Come now! Come yesterday!!!! Once you would have raced to my side but now I fear a certain literary lady possesses your heart. If I ever see her again I think I shall murder her. I have a paper knife in my reticule ready. Come now or I shall creep up to Sizzlinghurst this afternoon and lurk about the shrubbery until I find you. All my love forever, Venus.'
Ghastly scenario. Also deeply irritated by Venus's reference to a shrubbery. A shrubbery, indeed! She understands nothing.
Thursday 9 July 2015
Tuesday 30 June 2015
Henry's Little Weakness
I have thought for some time that Henry's Bugle is too shiny. I am not a great admirer of Ajuga Reptens, but Henry will keep tucking his wretched Bugle away in dark corners. Apparently Archie Pinkerton-Poker at the Foreign Office is also much addicted to Bugle. Although he is also fond of Kniphofia - indeed he is known behind his back as Red Hot Poker, for reasons which I hope are horticultural. His father Peregrine has a pied-a-terre in Polperro, and I believe it is red hot pokers wall to wall.
I am not opposed to shiny leaves per se - holly, for example, is elegant in winter; though in general shiny things are often frightfully common. Even gold should, if possible, be slightly tarnished or veiled with age.
I remember thinking once, on the first occasion when I began to tire of Venus, (we were at school at the time) that her eyes were slightly too shiny, though God knows it was ungrateful of me, because her eyes were shiny with - alas - adoration of moi. I vowed privately at that moment that my own eyes should never be shiny with enthusiasm, but dusky, shadowy, and withdrawn. I practised casting my eyes down and looking askance and haughty, and stole a glance at the looking glass - my eyes were not shiny, to be sure, but my nose was. The agonies of adolescence!
I wonder if Venus really is consorting with Lady Hermione X - as she vowed to do at our last raging row? Simply to spite me, I mean. I shall not react, or even betray the slightest interest. However I might write to Ginny to ask her to keep her ear to the ground. Wait! - Is that a cliche? One has to be so careful when writing to Ginny.
Venus is rather like wood sorrel. Small, pretty, but intent on colonising - and with an energy that is quite terrifying.
I think if I were a plant I would be a cedar tree. Henry would be a daisy.
If only.
I am not opposed to shiny leaves per se - holly, for example, is elegant in winter; though in general shiny things are often frightfully common. Even gold should, if possible, be slightly tarnished or veiled with age.
I remember thinking once, on the first occasion when I began to tire of Venus, (we were at school at the time) that her eyes were slightly too shiny, though God knows it was ungrateful of me, because her eyes were shiny with - alas - adoration of moi. I vowed privately at that moment that my own eyes should never be shiny with enthusiasm, but dusky, shadowy, and withdrawn. I practised casting my eyes down and looking askance and haughty, and stole a glance at the looking glass - my eyes were not shiny, to be sure, but my nose was. The agonies of adolescence!
I wonder if Venus really is consorting with Lady Hermione X - as she vowed to do at our last raging row? Simply to spite me, I mean. I shall not react, or even betray the slightest interest. However I might write to Ginny to ask her to keep her ear to the ground. Wait! - Is that a cliche? One has to be so careful when writing to Ginny.
Venus is rather like wood sorrel. Small, pretty, but intent on colonising - and with an energy that is quite terrifying.
I think if I were a plant I would be a cedar tree. Henry would be a daisy.
Sunday 28 June 2015
The Indelicacy of Nitrogen
June 28th.
Henry has just informed me that the best source of nitrogen is, if you'll forgive me, urine. Apparently urine mixed with wood ash is an excellent feed for tomatoes.
'We should cheerfully p*** in a bucket from now on,' he suggested. 'And get the Goslings to p*** in a bucket, too.'
Wood ash is no problem. For the past few months we could only keep warm by burning all the frightful modern Victorian furniture. But p***ing in a bucket - well, it's all right for the men. As usual, they triumph. How I hate them all, except Henry. I wonder, if one were to collect all such effusions over a lifetime, what would result? The Serpentine?
How to initiate a discussion on this subject with Mrs Gosling is something of a challenge.Went to the kitchen and endured a long conversation about jam tarts. Valiantly tried to think of a connection between shortcrust pastry and p***ing in a bucket, but failed to steer the conversation in the required direction. Fear she would have dragged God into it. Came away exhausted and convinced that Mrs Gosling never p***es at all - is not, in fact, human.
Paced up and down the North Border, which looks sublime. It seems to be doing very well on the muck from the vicarage stables and the prep school. I think I shall refrain from the bucket project. It is too far beneath me. And I am uneasy about the servants' p*** mingling with ours. It might lead to social unrest, to who knows what? - An explosion, perhaps. Nitrogen is a minefield.
On the bright side, I have discovered a lovely little night-scented flower called Zaluzianskya. Sounds like a Russian countess just waiting to be fascinated.
...Perhaps I should write to Venus offering an olive branch? No, I am too tired. I am too tired even for a bit of light pricking-out. I shall vanish for a while beneath the oaks.
Henry has just informed me that the best source of nitrogen is, if you'll forgive me, urine. Apparently urine mixed with wood ash is an excellent feed for tomatoes.
'We should cheerfully p*** in a bucket from now on,' he suggested. 'And get the Goslings to p*** in a bucket, too.'
Wood ash is no problem. For the past few months we could only keep warm by burning all the frightful modern Victorian furniture. But p***ing in a bucket - well, it's all right for the men. As usual, they triumph. How I hate them all, except Henry. I wonder, if one were to collect all such effusions over a lifetime, what would result? The Serpentine?
How to initiate a discussion on this subject with Mrs Gosling is something of a challenge.Went to the kitchen and endured a long conversation about jam tarts. Valiantly tried to think of a connection between shortcrust pastry and p***ing in a bucket, but failed to steer the conversation in the required direction. Fear she would have dragged God into it. Came away exhausted and convinced that Mrs Gosling never p***es at all - is not, in fact, human.
Paced up and down the North Border, which looks sublime. It seems to be doing very well on the muck from the vicarage stables and the prep school. I think I shall refrain from the bucket project. It is too far beneath me. And I am uneasy about the servants' p*** mingling with ours. It might lead to social unrest, to who knows what? - An explosion, perhaps. Nitrogen is a minefield.
On the bright side, I have discovered a lovely little night-scented flower called Zaluzianskya. Sounds like a Russian countess just waiting to be fascinated.
...Perhaps I should write to Venus offering an olive branch? No, I am too tired. I am too tired even for a bit of light pricking-out. I shall vanish for a while beneath the oaks.
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