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The wrong time of year
It might read as a little perverse, given that I cannot give a lengthy context to this statement, but I am of the opinion that I’d feel a little better about what is referred to as an economic downturn or second Great Depression, depending upon who you speak to and what newspaper you read, if we weren’t in October but instead found ourselves in the midst of all this doom talk at the very start of spring.
Of course the prospect of dole queues many miles long and everything being priced beyond any degree of affordability is scary whatever season we find ourselves in, but at least folks in places like New Zealand can start right now to plant vegetables or expand their already established plots. For us Brits, October is a time when we’re mostly pulling up the last remnants of whatever we’ve grown this year, assuming we grew anything at all, which most still refuse to contemplate ever doing.
Fools are never easier to spot than in times of crisis. The weeping bankers could well be followed by wailing chavs wondering how they’re going to survive without access to cheezy strings and greasy burgers, looking out on their green desert lawns overshadowed by giant children’s trampolines and nutrient-raping leylandiis, never once thinking they could ditch the toys, chop the tree, dig the ground, and start planting to survive. Perhaps they, unlike the bankers, might yet learn. We can but hope.
Today I’m harvesting the last of our courgettes, the plants being dealt a nightly blow by temperatures steadily heading downwards and giving us all a decidedly unwelcome chill in the mornings. Our pumpkin patch has produced just one moderately-sized but nevertheless very pretty green-and-white marbled objet d’art that will also make a few soups and pies after we tire of admiring its form factor. The reason for the disappointing pumpkin performance is the absolutely dreadful summer of continuous and heavy rain. Sheep across the UK have been horribly attacked by blow fly, while chickens have come down with mycoplasma, both these things caused by constant exposure to damp.
Our own hens survived the onslaught of rain and the illnesses it brought with it. In this, our first year of growing our own, we did have a reasonable crop of peas and beans, the aforementioned courgettes, and plenty of potatoes to see us through the winter. Plus, the hens are back to producing lovely eggs every day. They do, however, cost more and more to feed every month. Still, we get back more than we put in, not only in terms of the food they produce but the entertainment they offer while we feel unable to splash out on cinema, restaurants or even running the TV set too many hours a day.
I just find myself wondering, as the garden becomes more and more naked, what the winter holds in store in terms of weather, and whether man can survive on just potatoes and eggs. Alarmist? Yes. Haven’t you been reading the papers and watching the news? Alarmist talk is everywhere. Don’t you think all these commentators might have a point, or do you think they’re just a bunch of overly dramatic journos?
It’s the wrong time of year. But then, when is the right time of year for the world as you know it to collapse around your ears?
