Raining In My Heart

So there was I saying that the weather had been benign, and what does it go and do? You guessed it. A madre-and-padre of a downpour, though the accompanying storm was a pussy-cat compared to last October when there was the lion of the tornado or hurricane, or whatever it was, and then something close to it a couple of weeks later. Actually, it was more like a bloody great elephant, trampling everything in its path and sitting on top of you and blowing vast oceans out of its trunk. Anyway, as usual the road out front flooded yesterday, letting 4x4 racers hare through the water and belch a tsunami over the garden gate. You do wonder quite why they can't get round to sorting it out; the drains can't cope. Oh, and sorting out the 4x4 racers.

Of course some bright spark with nothing more intelligent to say will observe that it's good for the garden. Which is true, but it can do without too much assistance to damn well grow at this time of the year. Bushes, bloody bushes; they need no help from mother nature, or don't appear to. Hacked down, amidst wiping the sweat away from the eyes in August, they've put on a spurt, and now there's another round of cutting. I could always use a chain-saw, but where's the fun in that? All over in a couple of minutes. No, some long scissors and a hand saw are preferable; and that way I can keep on moaning. These bushes. It's not even as if I know what they're called - other than bushes. I'm entrapped by a year-round entanglement of bush, and no comments, please, about other forms of bush, notably of the anatomical variety.

But when it does decide to deposit a Mediterranean's worth of water from the skies, I guess I can be grateful for the high kerbstones, the raised terrace and the very accommodating if, during summer, parched lawn. You get these flyers for artificial grass and you can of course always just concrete it all over and save yourself a mowing job, but lawn, real lawn, is a decent-enough soaker-up of apocalyptic deluges. I never feel threatened by flooding encroaching into the house, except when the rains bring forth biblical quantities and are borne on a horizontal wind at the speeds of a Formula One driver and then decide to enter the house via the gaps under the doors on the top terrace and thus down the stairs. That I can do without, especially after the boiler blew its gasket last weekend.

All this stuff that grows though. Take palm trees. Mercifully, I have none. They may add this all-well-and-good Mediterranean, tropical appearance, but they are a pain in the backside to maintain. The tornado may be the elephant of the meteorological world, but the palm tree is its close horticultural cousin. Not only does it take up vast amounts of space, get close to one that's not been cut back during a high wind, and you'll receive a firm slap. The fronds are whipped up at great velocity; they are nature's dominatrix of a Max Mosley fantasy.

My neighbour has palms, one of which hangs itself over into my garden. It doesn't bother me, in the same way that I trust my neighbour is none too bothered by my ivy growing into his garden. But now and then a chap comes along to cut it back, and we engage in what has become a sort of annual conversation comparing his job to a hairdresser's. "Giving the palm a short back and sides, Joan." That sort of thing. Ho-ho. What I do have though is these plants that are from the pineapple family. I was once told their name, and promptly forgot it. But these things are taking over. There are five of them now, and the leaves are like knives. Get too close and you'll be scythed to pieces; they are garden machete. Do any work in their proximity, and it's best to approach them wearing full armour. There again, one of them, the most mature one, flowers for a brief while; an astonishing white-pink-purple waxy type of curlicue flower that shoots skyward. When the flowers die off, which they have, what is left is this withered twig. I guess you are meant to cut it down, but there's no way I'm going near it. I don't own a full suit of armour.

Anyway, the storm has passed, and the dawn is fine, and so I shall probably be forced to tackle more damn bushes. The tourists that remain will, with yesterday's storm, have been given an answer to that endless refrain of a question - "what's the weather like in October?". No month attracts more questions of this variety than October. I can understand it, as I can understand people asking the same question of any month, especially if they have never been here. October can be anything you want it to be. It can be the serenity of the days before the storm or the riled animal of the storm or just indifferent drizzle and showers, and when it is as yesterday, the tourist morale and hearts sink. What's it like in October? Whatever you like.


CAMINO DE TERNELLES
Following the attempt by the rambling militants to take over the camino in Pollensa in defence of loving to go a-wandering, the mayor of Pollensa has now said that he will sign a decree that allows the camino to be opened to the public. This, of course, has nothing to do with the pressure from political opponents, at least that's how it's being presented. The public way may soon, therefore, be open, and I'm sure we can all sleep easier knowing this.


QUIZ
Yesterday's title - The Style Council (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJeP3mipHQY). Today's title - speccy.

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