Ouch!

Ouch!

Ouch, that hurt – nipping me like that! With your icy fingers, targetting me, just because I’m in a hollow. Very sneaky. What you doin’ here anyway? You’re running late. You did it to me once before and I produced virtually nothing that year, bar one or two lack lustre fruits. Not enough to make a crumble.

Have you seen the mess? Have you seen it? Blossom scattered everywhere. My lovely fragrant blooms. Here I am with barely anything to bud. Why not knock someone while they’re down? At least we’ve all been targeted. All of us gnarled old hasbeens. As for poor Ron on the edge, he takes the brunt for all of us. Doesn’t stand a chance really. I look over, he looks back sorrowfully. His twiggy ends, snapped, hanging, swinging.

He’s protected us for years, Ron. Ron the stalwart, Ron the reliable, Ron the seducer. Oh yes! We’ve cross pollinated. The satisfaction of that tingle when a bee’s been to Ron and lands on one of my blooms. Delicate, but it hits the spot. It’s certainly been spread around. His pollen. We’ve all been touched by Ron. She thinks I don’t know, Mary over there. And Sheila. In fairness, I’m not averse to a bit of Sheila. Sometimes I don’t know what comes over me. After all, it all ends in production.

Yes, we’ve produced a lot over the years. Our gang. We haven’t asked for much. Just to be kept in good health. But that year! That year when we all caught powdery mildew! Bloody owners, selling up and moving away. Left to our own devices. All we needed was a good prune so we could breathe. We survived though. Resilient we are. For how much longer? Or is it were? We’ll be off, they’ll replace us. They’re already bringing them in, planting them in rows – cordons.

Efficient, profitable, protected against you. Yes you. You frigid fingered beast! A couple of years when they start to bloom, feeling their feet, coming into their own, we’ll be gone.

Kaput, totalled, extinct.

Firewood!