Bringing up the primroses

Sometimes, mostly when I wait at some airport I tend to thumb through some of those magazines carrying somewhat fancy with garden in their title. Beautiful women with long hair and an aristocratic face look happily around while their roses are in full bloom and their man, who wear Wellies and are always accompanied by very elegant dogs with a pedigree reaching back to the days of Elizabeth I. looking backwards to prove that they can handle a spade as well as a very expensive pen, planting some very old and nearly forgotten plant in exactly the right angle, that even Versailles starts to look shabby and somewhat ordinary. But when I start to think of improving my own relationship towards my garden, which is the antidote to any magazine existing and looking at myself in the mirror, where nothing aristocratic looks back, I remember the many, many plants and flower pots that came into my household, year after year, which started to shiver and would if they could, screamed for help, when they saw me, because I have the absolute capability to kill flowers and plants within an extraordinary tempo. But this year, again after a stop at the shelves of some airport, I bought at the local Woodie’s a place as non aristocratic as you may be able to imagine, very sad looking primroses that were already too fainted to shiver or making any attempts to escape out of my basket. After a long and strict speech to the cat I planted the primroses into the front garden and against all predictions the primroses did very well, and the cat did even better and the primroses started towards a happy future and I rescued even more from the dungeon of Woodie’s just to note, if any „Free the Primroses“ activists are to be found among the readers, there is still work to be done! And how I loved my primroses, the blue ones and the yellow twins, as well as the red pair and the white one. Hi primroses, I said when I left the house and felt very aristocratic for the next thirty seconds and they nodded friendly in my direction and did the same when I came back. But on Saturday night, I suddenly woke up, hearing an awful noise outside, swoosh and swaash, the cat jumped upon the closet and I told myself that not even the Erlkönig would introduce himself with a swoosh and a swaash,but when I opened the door I learned very quickly that a group of drunken teenagers making their way home from the pub, used their umbrellas as swords, beheading the primroses while laughing out loud. In the morning I collected the sad relicts of the primroses and today at the airport, I went straight by, not even looking in the directions of the shelves, where the magazines carrying somewhat fancy with garden in their title.

4 Gedanken zu “Bringing up the primroses

  1. Don’t stop talking to your primroses, they live more than one year, in fact they usually live more than two years. They’ll blossom again.

    I hope you were able to take a photo of those bastards who beheaded them.

  2. Yes, I can picture the poor primroses. Their sad sight makes it even more important that you talk to them. Say more than „hi“ to them, tell them how sad you are that they were beheaded, that they certainly didn’t deserve that and how much you loved their blossoms and how beautiful they are. Encourage them, it’s vital. Prince Charles talks to his roses, I talk to my plants and flowers, so you can do it too.

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