Revenge of the Pepper God

Yesterday I committed murder, although I prefer to think of it as mercy killing. What, you are probably asking yourself, has caused this vile act in a normally well balanced woman with a deep loathing of violence? Allow me to elucidate..... There is a repellent lean-to building at the back of the house which I laughingly call the 'sun lounge'. There is no room in which to lounge at the moment and sun is a little sporadic but accuracy has never been my forté. Currently the 'sun lounge' is serving as a greenhouse and is full to over flowing with pelargoniums, cuttings and assorted trays with things sown in them which I have forgotten to label, but which, I am confident, will become glorious plants come spring. In order to make room for the next wave of optimistic planting, sowing and general propagation, some of the more established plants needed to be transferred to the polytunnel.

First to go were the pots of lily bulbs which are destined to form the backbone of my new cut flower empire. I slipped and slid up the mud slide to the polytunnel, the contents of which I viewed with a jaundiced eye. Admittedly the  precocious sweet peas were looking healthy and will probably be flowering sometime in mid-January and dead by the end of February, but everything else was pretty vile. The last of the tomatoes, small green and showing large areas of brown slushiness, were taking up one entire side of the tunnel and half of the other side contained peppers. Well, when I say peppers I mean small, limp plants which have just started to come into flower. Let's face it, any pepper plant coming into flower in mid-November is unlikely to produce luscious fruit in sub-zero temperatures and an average of 9 hours light a day. Down at the bottom of the mud slide precious pots and tray were awaiting relocation and before me were these poor brave little plants which were fighting a courageous battle against late sowing, late planting out, low temperatures and no sunshine. They had made little flowers for gods sake, they were struggling against all odds to survive. They deserved respect, admiration, watering and cosseting. So I tore them up by the roots and hurled them onto the compost heap. What sort of person am I?

If you are shocked by my brutality you will be comforted to know that vengeance was swift and comprehensive. I want back to the sun lounge and collected two trays of little terracotts pots which I had spent an hour carefully planting with dwarf iris and little tete a tete daffodils. Halfway up the garden my wellies let me down and I measured my length in the mud. Pots flew in all directions and as the inevitable Exmoor rain beat down upon my bruised and battered body I crawled about in the gloop rescuing tiny bulbs. As I trudged disconsolately back to the sun lounge I passed the compost heap, from which, I swear came ghostly laughter.