Time To Go Gardening

The time I spent living in the Sahara Desert taught me two things: one was never to go out in the midday sun; the other was never to complain about the weather back home. It's not just that the Sahara is very hot: it is mind-numbingly, never-endingly hot. Britain, by comparison, with its cycle of four seasons, is a refreshing and stimulating place to wake up in, a place where the weather - capricious as it is - keeps you on your toes. In the Sahara the weather keeps you mostly on your back.

The predictability of my precious seasons may be threatened by global climate changes but they do still retain a rough pattern and sequence. Right now, early summer, is a time of anticipation. The sap is rising in so many ways: students are finishing their studies and heading off to music festivals; families are getting excited about going on holiday; tables and chairs are being set outside cafés and pubs - and I am watching my geraniums begin to flower. Not that I am a fanatical gardener, but my enthusiasm for music festivals wore thin years ago, family holidays are off my agenda and there is only so much time one can profitably spend at cafes and pubs.

And, given my hard-won appreciation for the changing seasons, I do my best to encourage mother nature to display her wonders. I once lived in a house which had an extensive garden but nowadays it's a city centre apartment with balconies where geraniums - and other potted plants - have pride of place. Here the random splashes of green foliage and multi-coloured blooms serve as an antidote to regimented architecture, drab stone, dull concrete, utilitarian railings and grimy bricks. Against such a background, plants represent the joyous spirit of uncontrolled chaos asserting itself in spite of having been deliberately excluded by the town planners.

Evidently not all the residents around here feel the same way. There are some token plants on one or two balconies, some neglected specimens on others but none at all on most. This strikes me as strange. Surely they cannot all be indifferent to the change in season heralded by the blossoming of plants? And where is their pride in appearance? One's balcony, unlike one's back garden, can be seen by hundreds of people. At the least I would expect some competition to develop - as it does so readily on allotments.

But perhaps they are all content to look across at my display - and who could blame them? I have experimented endlessly to get things just right. Different styles of pots, changed according to the fashion of the day; a profuse variety of geraniums; a few carefully interspersed evergreens and everything arranged tastefully with all the sensitivities that my limited knowledge of feng-shui can bring to the scene. Faced with such a show of expertise, would-be competitors may well have withdrawn from the fray.

I took a well-earned break from tending my display, sitting down to leaf through the weekend papers where a special feature advertising the summer's music festivals caught my attention and caused me to look back and ponder on my gradual  transition from carefree, youthful festival-goer to pernickety old gardener. How did that happen? I decided to find out - the easy way. That evening Glastonbury was on the TV. After watering all the pots I settled down to watch.

The sun shone on the crowds (just as I remember it used to) but my heart wasn't with them. The music didn't belong to me - until the Stones came on and took charge of the occasion. They hit us with a double whammy, stirring the loins of an old gardener and captivating a generation (or two) of future gardeners.