Flora
Okay, the last few posts have been rather nasty and bile-filled (not to mention libellous and breaking any number of copyright laws), so it's time to talk about something nice. Like flowers. Flowers are nice... mostly.
On Sunday afternoon I did some pruning down the side of my driveway, where angry, disaffected plants from the neighbour's garden send loping tendrils over the fence to attack passing cars. One of their plants is a rather single-minded climber that has its roots in the middle of their garden, but puts all its effort into growing over my fence, some two or three metres away. To do that it has had to commit to eternal battle with their bougainvillea, and if you've ever done battle with one of these, you will know that they always win.
Still, the climber has prevailed in a couple of patches, and it is here that it throws up its huge, exhuberent, trumpet-shaped flowers like some sort of arboreal Louis Armstrong. Each yellow bloom is easily the size of my outstretched hand, from the tip of my thumb to the tip of my little finger. They have an odd scent, maybe 50% cinnamon and 50% unidentifiable. So when I had finished pruning, I collected up the flowers and put them in a vase on the kitchen bench. They look very striking. Indeed, before they open the blooms resemble nothing so much as big, fleshy cudgels, so 'striking' does seem to be the appropriate adjective. However I have a slight fear that some day soon I'll wander into my kitchen and suddenly find myself waist-deep in an impromptu remake of 'The Day of the Triffids'.
On Sunday afternoon I did some pruning down the side of my driveway, where angry, disaffected plants from the neighbour's garden send loping tendrils over the fence to attack passing cars. One of their plants is a rather single-minded climber that has its roots in the middle of their garden, but puts all its effort into growing over my fence, some two or three metres away. To do that it has had to commit to eternal battle with their bougainvillea, and if you've ever done battle with one of these, you will know that they always win.
Still, the climber has prevailed in a couple of patches, and it is here that it throws up its huge, exhuberent, trumpet-shaped flowers like some sort of arboreal Louis Armstrong. Each yellow bloom is easily the size of my outstretched hand, from the tip of my thumb to the tip of my little finger. They have an odd scent, maybe 50% cinnamon and 50% unidentifiable. So when I had finished pruning, I collected up the flowers and put them in a vase on the kitchen bench. They look very striking. Indeed, before they open the blooms resemble nothing so much as big, fleshy cudgels, so 'striking' does seem to be the appropriate adjective. However I have a slight fear that some day soon I'll wander into my kitchen and suddenly find myself waist-deep in an impromptu remake of 'The Day of the Triffids'.
posted by Blandwagon at 7:57 PM
2 Comments:
I've seen those flowers - and I'm sure that they have an inbuilt proclivity for growing over fences. I have only ever seen them peeping over fences in surburban alleyways and I always want to pick them (they have so much character), but feel as though this would be pilfering from any other appreciative alleyway users who would lose the chance to enjoy them!
Did you have to wear body armour to cope with the spines during your pruning adventure?
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