Come on, I'm doing really well with Skimmia and you want more details? I bought this new one months ago and it was only when I brought it home did I read the small print and see that it needed a male one to produce berries. Bloody hell, I thought, how do you tell the sex of a Skimmia? It's not as if there are any overt indications, after all. This is a plant of our times, obviously.
So, respectful of their privacy, with eyes closed , I waved the new girl in the general direction of the possible boy plant. Pimp for plants, that's me. Well, it looks as though it may well have worked as girl plant is getting flowers. It's the small things in life that get you excited as a sexagenarian.
I have adopted this word, rather than sixty year old because it's all about sex these days. Not me, silly, every other bugger in this country and abroad, is on about sexual misdemeanour. I blame Harvey Weinstein, the lion rampant of all predatory males. If half of what he's accused of is true, then his roar has rightly been reduced to a squeak. This seems to have started a witch-hunt of the most extraordinary proportions. Where will it all end? Will it bring down government?
I do wish we could get a collective grip on the situation and save the abject anguish over knee-patters for the genuinely abused. Women of my generation are looking on, bemused at the numerous instances that are coming to light. How did we deal with it? With a well-aimed blow if necessary, a withering retort, or sometimes the best weapon of all, humour. Where did it all go so badly wrong? Nothing really has changed. I just hope that women will be happy when they have finally succeeded in emasculating males and are not offended when the men sex solace in sex-bots.
I'm going out to talk to the plants...
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| Inkling Cards, By the Book by Simon Dorrell |
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