Another rose in my political garden

I’ve written lately about the five rose plants which we bought last year, and which at various times since then have fought for my attention on the patio. I call them Boris, Priti (formerly Theresa), Dominic, Matt and Keir.

There’s another one that’s been around lots longer. I call him Joe. He’s a bit spindly, because I frequently forget to prune him. Earlier this summer, I treated him, along with all the others, for a nasty fungal infection. After removing all the affected leaves and cutting off the dead branches, there wasn’t much left that suggested any flowers this year. In fact, I thought I might have to put him out of his misery at one stage.

He stands alone, planted in the ground, rather than in pots like the other ones. It’s almost as if he’s in another country.

But lo! Old Joe is starting to produce.

Sitting on my patio, I can see at least eight buds waiting to burst into life. And atop them all, the first flower of the season sits, a triumph of hope over expectation.

Nearby, almost blocking one side of the conservatory, sits a big fat bush in full bloom with a multitude of yellow flowers. The blooms are spectacular, if slightly manic, but I don’t like the bush encroaching over the path and blocking my view of the rest of the garden when I escape to the conservatory.

By November, if previous years are any guide, Joe will still be in flower, but Donald, the big bullying bush with yellow blooms, will have had a Brazilian. Cut right back.

I like flowers, as Chance the Gardener might have said in Being There, one of my favourite movies. But every plant in the garden has its moment of glory. And there comes a day when it must be cut back, pruned and put in its place.

As Peter Sellers’ Chance, the illiterate gardener mistaken by America’s great and good for an economic seer, says to the President in a statement interpreted as a great profundity:

“In the garden, growth has it seasons. First comes spring and summer, but then we have fall and winter. And then we get spring and summer again.”

Or, upon riding in the car for the first time:

“This is just like television, only you can see much further.”

Or, as the TV-addled Chance says to Shirley MacLaine’s wealthy socialite when she tries to seduce him:

“I like to watch.”

They don’t make movies like that any more. Too close to the bone.

Enough of this silliness. Back to dreaming.