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 I vowed privately at that moment that my own eyes should never be shiny with enthusiasm, but dusky, shadowy, and withdrawn.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.

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.