New arrivals, banana news
I have a new citrus, a Buddhas Hand citron. One of the weirdest citrus you can get, the segments of the fruit are individually enclosed,so you end up with a strange contorted fingery thing. Apparently the chinese use them to perfume rooms, I'll let you know.
Here is an update on the banana news;
My Musella Lasiocarpa is thriving, enjoying the mixture of rain and sun that seems to typify Wimbledon fortnight. My other two bananas, Musa Gran Nain and Musa Dwarf Orinoco are starting to take off at last, although they are both still tiny.
Strelitzia Nicolae is very shiny and green and positively throbbing. No signs of germination from any of the other banana seeds or strelitzia seeds, which is frankly something of a relief, there is a limit to how much I can overwinter indoors.
Parrots v. Skaterpunk
For the last few mornings I've been awakened at dawn by an appalling screeching rumpus from down the garden. Subsequent investigations have revealed that the feral parakeets have discovered that my gooseberries are on the verge of ripeness.
I'm not averse to sharing my produce around, but the little buggers are quite destructive, and seem to drop more than they eat. Today I'm trying out out a bit of aversion treatment on them.
Parakeets are quite timid, for all the noise they make, and very wary of any change, so I have festooned the area with redundant or damaged CD's amongst which is Ms Lavigne's opus 1. At the risk of blowing my street cred, I should point that this was my DSM's copy and got trodden on (the third copy she bought during that tour, you'd think she'd have learned). Her copy of the 'Busted' CD never left her person, I think she knew was likely to happen if it did.
Anyway, I'm hoping that the introduction of shiny, dangly, moving things will introduce sufficient uncertainty into their little lives that my gooseberries will ripen. Otherwise I'll have to consider netting them (the gooseberries, not the parakeets).
Rubber Ducky
I was cleaning my bathroom today, and as I cleaned the sink, I encountered a small yellow duck. I acquired it while I was doing a tradeshow in Northern Ireland, and it is an example of a strange hotel gimmick. The Slieve Donnard hotel (shows how well these things work), makes a big deal of their rubber ducks, and in their office have a wall of ducks signed by celebrities.
Indeed, they have a notice in the bedrooms saying that if you don't have a duck in your bathroom, please call reception and they will send one up. Presumably everyone, as I did, takes their duck away with them.
The hotel I stay in when I'm doing shows in Switzerland places tiny Toblerones on your pillow each night, when they come in to turn down your bed in the evening. It's a different world.
Greenhouses to Jesuits
Funny old week, this one. I started with a couple of days helping an old school friend plasterboard his extension ceiling, an activity which requires me to stand on tip-toe with my arms above my head for extended periods.
A couple of days of that was a good warm-up for my next task; the Opera Company I toured most of Europe with last year were making their annual visit to the Great Conservatory at Syon House. This is a date loathed and hated by everyone involved, it's not that the venue isn't attractive, but if all's said and done it is still just a bloody great greenhouse, with acoustics to
match. In addition it is on the final approach to Heathrow, so every couple of minutes another jumbo labours over, and the building is acoustically as well as visually transparent. The gig is staffed by the sort of bone headed but implacable minor aristos who would be terrific if some unspecified natural disaster took place, but are reduced to bloody minded hysteria by putting out 250 chairs.
Last year it rained, oh how it poured, greenhouses don't really have to be watertight, so instead of spilling out over the lawns of Syon with their champagne, our privileged audience colonised the stage. I spent most of my time retrieving glasses from the set. One of the operas we performed; Lucia di Lammermoor, required a performer to be preset on stage (as a corpse) about 20 minutes before the performance began. I was quite surprised that she wasn't handed empty glasses, although they did leave them on her shroud. There is an implicit assumption that anyone not wearing black tie was therefore a servant, and could be instructed to do anything.
Opera in a downpour, even if you are nominally undercover, is not pleasant, we had water running over the piano, through the lights, and of course, though we didn't care too much, over the audience.
This year was much less pleasant, when the temperature outside is around 30 degrees, erecting a set and rigging lights in a greenhouse is guaranteed sauna territory. This year we had the added joyful contribution of an oversexed and confused peacock, oh, forgive me gentle reader; His Grace, The Duke of Northumberland, in his never ending pursuit of the tourist dollar, has equipped his grounds with peacocks.
In the interest of aesthetics, however, he has six cocks and one hen, at this time of year the boys are fully dressed to party, and in consequence there is more testosterone in the air than in a public school changing room.
Our peacock, and it was just the one special needs bird, developed a fascination with the highly polished legs of the piano, and stood for hours, pecking at its reflection.
Nature note; peacocks are related to pheasants, but are, if possible, more stupid. Having finally wedged an idea into their tiny brains, it would seem to be impossible to remove it.
Thing was, peacocks don't really fit in with opera performances, they take up too much room, but if we shooed it out it would pop back in through a window somewhere to have another go at its black shiny three legged rival. Eventually, it thoroughly lost it, and attacked the piano, dropkicking it spectacularly, with the result that somehow, it cut its foot, and then bled everywhere (not nice when you have posh costumes). This was the point where we had to cover the piano legs, not with some victorian anti-eroticicism, but with sheets from the security guards copy of The Sun, a paradox I guess.
For the show the only solution I could come up with was to tape a makeup mirror to a window, fortunately, for one night only, it spent four hours pecking at its reflection, and bleeding all over a bench.
Next day was even hotter, the set was bigger and heavier, and not designed for uneven flagstoned floors, and this time, our friend the peacock was on a special mission. The lovely gardeners at Syon had made an enclosure of overturned tables for the piano, so the little swine had been deprived of quality staring and pecking time for hours before we got there. Unfortunately, when we tried the makeup mirror routine again, he went berserk and tried to smash the window. Standing inside and watching a creature the size of a turkey drop kicking a window is unusual, to say the least.
During the first act I borrowed a tray from the caterers, and put it in a bush strategically at peacock eye level, this was not a huge success, as the performance was punctuated with clangs, and peacock screams.
Ultimately, as it gets dark, peacocks go to bed, and thankfully, this one was no exception, although it did make a final contribution to the opera, when Papageno was seeking out Papagena (it was Flute on the second night, Onegin on the first), that moment of pathos when he has called and heard no response for the third time, he got a response from the bird alright, bang on cue.
Curious the detritus you find after a gig; in one corner we found a small pile of pills and a hearing aid, I can offer no explanation, although, by the look of some of our audience, they were lucky to make it through the performance.
Today was much more civilised, I spent the morning in a Jesuit archive in Mayfair, photographing a 16th century manuscript for The Northern Professor. Although it is a fairly modern building (I mean Victorian/Edwardian), the christian brothers have created a feeling of something much older, there are iron bars, there is evidence of water penetration, such fun. The archivist was a solid american cleric, of what I'm informed is the old school, very easy to get on with, although I was kept waiting for twenty minutes after our appointed time. I suspect this might have been a 'know your place' ruse, as in a similar spirit, I was five minutes early. Still this gave me an opportunity to read about football and faith in Africa, so it wasn't all bad, good to see that the concept of muscular christianity hasn't entirely faded away.
Beards and sandals
Wearing my theatrical hat, I went to the ABTT (Association of British Theatre Technicians) annual trade exhibition this week. Rather improbably, for the last few years this has been held in the Horticultural Halls in Victoria. In the past it used to be forced untidily into a theatre somewhere, but at some point it was decided that it all looked a bit amateurish and it moved to its present home.
The ABTT show is quite small, very much the poor relation of the annual PLASA beano at Earls Court. It is unusual for any companies to be presenting us with anything new, although (unlike PLASA) most of the techy toys demonstrated usually work.
It is quite different in character from PLASA, there are no power buyers in sharp suits, buying equipment for Asian monster theatres, instead there are a lot of old men with beards, happy to talk for hours on how they used to do it all with string and sealing wax, and how it was so much better when there weren't computers everywhere.
I don't know what it is that leads the genus techy to do so much bad hair, long greasy hair in a pony tail is still commonplace (although the pubic hair goatee is no longer as ubiquitous). How these gangly spotty little scrotes morph into the tubby beardy sandal wearing old men is a mystery, although I suspect that beer is involved.
As ever, the best part of the show was going to the pub after, the crowds of drama school students with their carrier bags full of pamphlets don't make it to the pub, so the chat tends to be a bit more analytical, until there have been a few beers, when it starts to become demolition. Still, it is a theatrical institution, and long may it remain; people don't try and sell you things, which is nice.
www.abtt.org.uk/www.plasa.org/
The Return of the Foxes
I saw the cubs last night as I came home, there are at least three, and they were ripping up a bin bag further up the street. They watched me approach without any sign of fear, then discreetly ducked out of sight as I drew close. As soon as I had passed I looked back, and there was a pointed face with very large ears peering round at me. They are still quite small, and offer no threats to a cat as far as I can see.
There has been a BBC film unit filming in one of the houses up the street, and I hoped that the presence of an all-night security guard, sitting out on the pavement in a deck chair, complete with gas ring, kettle etc would be enough to discourage the little beasts.
Needless to say they were completely indifferent to him, and my rubbish was spread all over the pavement this morning.
I looked at the council website for information about pest control (not seeking to kill them off you understand, merely to discourage them), and they quite firmly state that they offer an advice service for many things, except: squirrels, pigeons and foxes. I wonder if it is a size thing, the cut-off point seems to be at rats. No doubt I'll come back to this story again.
Invisible Images
Last week I went to a private view of photographer Ted Duncan's work at the Foundling Museum. The exhibition is small, but almost unbearably poignant. It deals with the artist's examination of her own childhood, having been brought up in the care 'system'. I won't say a lot more, except that it is well worth a visit.
The accompanying artists statement states that part of her reason's for showing this painful and honest work, is '
to inform those who have had a more conventional childhood.'It would be hard to imagine a more appropriate exhibition space than The Foundling Museum. I was vaguely aware of the historical existence of the Foundling Hospital in the wilder regions of Bloomsbury. Although the actual hospital building was demolished in the 1920's (it was, incidentally, massive), the building on Brunswick Square was retained, and has now been extensively refurbished, reopening last year.
As well as temporary exhibitions, such as Ted's, they have a permanent exhibition of material pertaining to Thomas Coram, and the other two patrons; William Hogarth and George Friderick Handel. An interesting and thought provoking place.
http://www.foundlingmuseum.org.uk/http://www.coram.org.uk/heritage.htm
Urbane Foxes
I'm sure I'm not the first blogger to comment on the irrestistable rise of the urban fox. Round here we have many, they are usually pretty depressing to look at; scrawny and mangy, and, worse than squirrels, they love to tear open the rubbish bags that our council demands that we leave out for collection.
Coming home late at night I would often encounter troupes of them, methodically checking out the rubbish, street by street. They even seem to know which days the rubbish is put out on. Of late, however thet have become much more bold, and annoying, they dig random holes in flower beds, tunnel in the compost heap, and today, two cubs decided to have a go at the grumpy cat that lives upstairs.
I'll digress for a moment, and introduce her, she is an abyssinian of the silver grey variety, and, as a result of inertia and overfeeding, she resembles a pyjama case. At the last weigh in, she was approximately 2.5 kilos overweight, and whilst I don't think she could hurt a fox, unless she accidentally sat on one, she is big enough not to be considered an easy meal.
However, these two cubs decided to have a pop, I think they were just playing, there was lots of yipping and squeaking, and the cat retired to the comparative safety of the garden wall. The cubs, however, were not scared off by human intervention, and kept popping up on the wall to continue their play. When they eventually got bored, I could hear them yipping away as they traversed the neighbouring gardens. Bear in mind that this is on a sunny sunday; kids out playing, dogs barking and the sound of lawnmowers a-gogo, insouciant or what?
Alt.Birds
Curious afternoon, I was wandering about aimlessly in the garden, and was suddenly struck by the number of small birds that were completely ignoring me.
I'm used to the robins, but today I was also invisible (or a matter of complete indifference) to wrens, blackbirds, blue tits, magpies and, quite unusually, a lesser spotted woodpecker. The latter has been seen before, and is just passing through I suspect. There is a fine selection of rotting logs, on which I have seen it drumming in the past.
Digressing slightly, I knocked over a stump of an ex-buddleia last week, not realising how far gone it was, and uncovered a twitching collection of blue-white stag beetle larvae. These look not unlike scampi (pre-breadcrumb), or very large (about 2 ins) fat white caterpillars. Sadly, because I like stag beetles, I suspect that I finished them off. I covered them over with some bits of wood and a slate, but I think they need the controlled humidy that burrowing in rotting timber gives to them. Oh well, hopefully something had a good meal.
We had a short but very violent rain/thunder storm this afternoon, I wonder if that's why the birds were all being so pre-occupied. Answers on a postcard please.
Top Banana
The postman summoned me from my bed at some ghastly hour this morning, and handed me a package containing my new banana plant.
Musella Lasiocarpa, (AKA; the himalayan banana, golden lotus banana, chinese yellow banana), originates in the Yunan province of China. It's quite a small plant as they go, growing to 4-6 feet in height. It carries a single yellow flower which can stay on the plant for more than six months. It's monocarpic, and dies after setting fruit, leaving a collection of offsets to grow on.
What started me off on this plant, I suppose, is that it is hardy down to -10 (although opinions vary).
There is something attractive, and admittedly barking, about growing bananas in london. I was doing a show in the Great Conservatory at Syon Park last year, and was very impressed by their Musa Basjoo, which, despite the predations of drunken wedding guests had, in one year, grown to an impressive size. Since then I've attempted growing from seed, with negative results to date, although most authorities advise keeping your sad little pots for up to two years.
The thing about growers of tropical plants is that they seem as a general rule to be enthusiastic and slightly dotty. The grower from whom I bought my M.Lasiocarpa (and some purple banana seed), insists on giving me regular weather reports from belgium (where she is located). Naturally I respond with local growing conditions, well you would wouldn't you?
Lost and found
This is something of a discovery, I've been hunting for my lost blog for a week now. I suspect that my increasingly bad habit of not noting down details of names, logins etc is to blame.
On the subject of parakeets, I went to Kew Gardens last weekend to see the Chihuly glass sculptures. In some cases these epic constructions are hideous, in others strangely beautiful. They have been sited all over, but the most effective (in my opinion), are in the greenhouses, where weird contorted forms lurk in the undergrowth, which is in itself pretty weird. Martha, the three year old daughter of my companions, kept asking where the monsters were hiding. 'All around you' was the only possible answer, and seemed to satisfy her.
Kew is very near to the nature reserve at Barnes where the largest colony of ring-necked parakeets live, and you can hear them shrieking all the time as you wander about. For a bright green bird, they are surprisingly hard to spot, and they fly quite high. Once you've identified them, however, you'll see and hear them all over London. Apparently there are about 10.000 in London, no wonder there are no sparrows any more.
http://www.rbgkew.org.uk/chihuly/http://www.bbc.co.uk/england/sevenwonders/london/parakeets/
