Hodgram
Accidents will happen
The young woman who lives next door is trying to grow roses again this year. It seems nobody told her that roses need to have full sunshine. She dug them in too close together and planted them in the shade of a tree, it won’t kill them right off, but they’ll be weak and spindly; just like the ones she tried to grow last year. She never thinks to dig in compost. My old Dad used to get horse muck for his roses, “the sweetest blooms from the stinkiest shit” he’d say, and Mother would cuff his ears for using language in front of the children; but he was right, and his roses were a delight. The young woman next door wouldn’t know manure even if it landed right under her nose, bless her. Her bushes will be desperate and straggly, unfed, un-pruned, un-mulched. The last ones got black-spot and aphids, she did nothing, of course they died, she is clueless poor girl. I understand that she went to university, and has an MBA, and a good job; but it looks as if no-one ever taught her roses. I could cut her some of mine when they bloom, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass her.
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