A (Burts’ Eye) View From The Greenhouse; Feminism Or Infanticide

A busy long weekend just completed with a trip to the railway station. Mrs C’s birthday was graced by the presence of our friends from Essex who haven’t graced us with their presence (it’s a long way) for almost four years (I wrote an article about his little pub https://going-postal.com/2019/10/a-short-postcard-from-the-firkin-fox/ here). I’m clearly not the man I used to think I was anymore, but we managed a short walk to Elterwater, a fairly boozy day out in Keswick and to polish off a Sunday lunch of some merit (although I say so myself) with both our daughters and the latest addition to the family in attendance. Inconsequential, I know, apart from the fact that I dug up some of the first spuds (Charlottes) which were decidedly underwhelming, in both size and quantity. I suppose the Klimate Katastrophe (or the vagaries of the weather in the northern hinterlands, as such phenomena are more commonly known) is to blame, the potato patch being decidedly claggy (sticky), after much more than our fair share of rain in recent weeks. Potatoes can’t abide a claggy environment. Thankfully, the deployment of the sandbags forestalled another “flooded garage” incident, so that’s one positive, I suppose.

No home grown vegetables with the slow cooked brisket, but the daughters pulled out all the stops to produce an excellent ripple cheesecake with the second coming of the strawberries as an edible decoration/topping. As with most things these days, I got my knickers in a bit of a knot when we got a good few early, if flavour lacking, strawberries during the spring hot spell, only for them not to flourish as the weather turned. I needn’t have worried, as a further cropping is now offering itself up, with some large (if slightly misshapen) tasty fruits. As a bonus, the “runners” are in great condition this year and I plan to start potting some of them on, so as to introduce some “fresh blood” into the patch next season. I still haven’t identified the parasite, but it’s only eaten a few leaves, and the fruit don’t seem to be affected, so I’m not panicking about that just yet, it’s probably a spider mite of some kind.

The  young “little gems” make good eating, softly crisp and pleasantly sweet (in that salad vegetable way) and go well with a crisper leaf and/or something a little more bitter. The mixed “cut and come again” leaves haven’t fared so well, they came on in a rush during the hot spell and consequently needed plenty of water, but they’ve ended up stunted and leathery (a bit like me, really). To be honest, I don’t know why I’ve even left them in, laziness, I suppose. I should chuck them on the compost heap and replant the little space with another batch, they do bring a little “frisson” of something to a plate salad, honest!

After much fretting and not a little admonishment from the guys in the B&M department regarding my lack of patience, we’ve had some limited success with the later sowing of a variety of capsicum seeds. I didn’t even know what variety some of them were, so I marked the plant tags with a simple ?, in the hope of a little surprise later in the year. Knowing my luck they’ll probably be a long red pepper, or a mild chilli, given that we now have both these varieties finally germinating. Most of the house will be planted up by the end of this week. For a goodly period of time (me being me), I didn’t think we’d ever get to this stage!

Something else that’s decided to “come on” after threatening to die off for a couple of weeks, is the last of the cornichons which has sprung into life following another timely intervention from the B&M department (we’ll make a rough gardener out of him yet) . He suggested standing some of the more lacklustre pots in a very mild solution of seaweed concentrate and it’s worked, not only on the capsicums and the cornichon, but also on some peas and beans (more of which next time). Much of the problem (we think) lies with the quality of the compost we’ve been using, but the seaweed seems to give it a bit of a bounce. Any road up, I now have a kneeling pad and a carefully positioned, sturdy stick to help me stand up. “Macho Man” days are well and truly over!

Nowt needs saying, really, the two things that takes the least looking after (once the pruning’s out of the way) are the two things that seem to have come out best from the Spring hot spell. The grape juice should be excellent this year. Nothing definite’s been decided, but if we can maintain the productivity across both vines, the idea of making a gallon or so of wine in 2026 is kind of on the cards. Watch this space.

I probably mentioned, at an earlier juncture, that I’d sown some different tomato seeds this time around, hoping to add something a little different to the pot. What I hadn’t really bargained on was a dwarf tomato of any kind! I like my tomato plants to reach at least five feet in height and I’m not a fan of bushy “pot” tomato plants that need to allow the side-shoots free rein, if they’re going to be productive. I think I’ve got one here that slipped through the net! It isn’t any more than eight inches high, but it’s producing fruit from two different stems (triggerin’) and I’m not sure I can get on with it. I’ll taste the ripe fruit (one never knows), but I’m guessing this could be a first and last moment.

Further down the plot there’s a different story unfolding. Thanks to the weekly application of seaweed concentrate, albeit in too strong a solution until we realised what the words “fill an inner cap” actually meant, we have many plants at eighteen inches plus and five or six at over two feet high. Although later in the piece than we would have liked, this bodes well. Most of this batch of thirty two plants are beginning to flower and a couple have fruit. It’s going to be touch and go for the show (three editions away) but although it’s nice to get prizes, it isn’t the be all and end all, is it? I’m sure I’ll have something to show, even if it’s only a few scrawny spuds, a couple of insipid toms and a baby swede as a component of the “vegetable and flower” class. *Judges tip; the two entries should be of a comparable size!

As a scarecrow and, therefore, nothing more than a functionary, albeit one that likes to maintain a weather eye on proceedings (including, funnily enough, the weather) it came to my attention that the “late abortion” bill was joining the laughably referred to “assisted dying” bill on the statute books. It isn’t a secret that the fellow most responsible for my existence has a beautiful baby granddaughter (his first grandchild). I was happy to meet her when she paid the first of what I’m sure will be many visits to my little patch, just this last week. She’s a little belter. Any road up, this beautiful little girl was born at thirty two weeks, by emergency caesarean. She was tiny, as all premature babies are, but perfectly formed. The operation had to be undertaken and there were no guarantees, beyond the fact that without said procedure, both mother and baby were at serious risk of severe harm. After four weeks in special care, two in high dependency, this little girl was allowed home to begin the life that her mother had fought so hard to give her. So far as I know, abortion was never an option, but anyone who saw this little girl, or any of the other premature babies that shared the unit with her, some of them born at under thirty weeks, would need a heart of stone to even consider denying them the care and love needed to give them a chance at living a full and meaningful life.

Prominent “Progressive feminists” Tonia Antoniazzi MP and Stella Creasey MP (amongst others) were front and centre of the passing of this bill (379 out of the 516 MP’s who voted, voted in favour) to pass a law that decriminalises late abortion for whatever reason. I’m not anti-abortion, being non-sentient means I have no skin in the game (as it were), but anyone who happily sanctions, facilitates, or chooses late stage abortion as some ghoulish form of contraception, when there’s no clear medical need, thereby condemning a healthy baby to being ripped apart and (possibly) sold piecemeal for the purposes of “medical research” is either conspiring in, or guilty of, wilful infanticide. It’s neither progressive, nor feministic. So many moral compasses put to one side, sacrificed on the dubious, dichotomous altar of “Progressive Liberalism”.
 

© Colin Cross 2025