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Phalaenopsis
Oct. 5th, 2009 03:41 pmAutumn ugh!
Autumn's brahhhn innit? OK, the magic of the trees changing is cool, but this is England, not new England, and the magic is limited by drab skies and rain, though admittedly picking blackberries out the back while the rain laces all those spiderwebs is pretty. I sprinkle them on my bran (the brambles, not the webs) they taste great, I feel virtuous. Well done season of mists and mellow fruitfullness. Now get lost, I want the summer back!
Among the things I mourn with the onset of the cold are my slowly diminishing orchids. I love orchids. Not only are they beautiful, they're tough and hang on in there for months, unchanging and lovely. I don't quite get what folk say regarding orchids being hard to keep. As far as I can tell, most like light, heat, and being saturated in water every now and then, like humans but without the fat. Contrary to the dismal fate of my jasmines, busy lizzies, pumpkins and umbrella fig trees, this teeny phalaenopsis brotherhood turns out to be like the Bullingdon club with better manners and no money. They've survived the hood for a long time, mainly by sticking their wee veggie tongues out at cats, cleaners, sprays, fags, interlopers and secateurs. If they could turn their roots into art-driven tendrils they might well be spraypainting my mantlepiece with gang tags by now.
Suddenly the cold is proving too much for them. The creamy white one having previously always dropped one blossom at a time, is now ready to dispatch three in a go. The white and pink spotted one, always more robust, has dropped a bloom. At some point, when all their flowers have fallen, one is supposed to cut them right back. I can't release my inner conviction that the moment I do that, they'll be stark bone dead.
Autumn's brahhhn innit? OK, the magic of the trees changing is cool, but this is England, not new England, and the magic is limited by drab skies and rain, though admittedly picking blackberries out the back while the rain laces all those spiderwebs is pretty. I sprinkle them on my bran (the brambles, not the webs) they taste great, I feel virtuous. Well done season of mists and mellow fruitfullness. Now get lost, I want the summer back!
Among the things I mourn with the onset of the cold are my slowly diminishing orchids. I love orchids. Not only are they beautiful, they're tough and hang on in there for months, unchanging and lovely. I don't quite get what folk say regarding orchids being hard to keep. As far as I can tell, most like light, heat, and being saturated in water every now and then, like humans but without the fat. Contrary to the dismal fate of my jasmines, busy lizzies, pumpkins and umbrella fig trees, this teeny phalaenopsis brotherhood turns out to be like the Bullingdon club with better manners and no money. They've survived the hood for a long time, mainly by sticking their wee veggie tongues out at cats, cleaners, sprays, fags, interlopers and secateurs. If they could turn their roots into art-driven tendrils they might well be spraypainting my mantlepiece with gang tags by now.
Suddenly the cold is proving too much for them. The creamy white one having previously always dropped one blossom at a time, is now ready to dispatch three in a go. The white and pink spotted one, always more robust, has dropped a bloom. At some point, when all their flowers have fallen, one is supposed to cut them right back. I can't release my inner conviction that the moment I do that, they'll be stark bone dead.
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