Too Much About Plants, and 'Queer'

Remember how last year was a banner year for our forget-me-nots? We had masses of them, all around our roses and in two locations at either side of the lawn. I don't know what made them so prolific, but I left them all until the end of May, giving them plenty of time (I thought) to go to seed.

This year? We have almost none.

I am completely mystified about why they didn't come back as they always have. The only place we have them is in two pots next to the back steps (above), where they re-seeded. Those pots are supposed to contain lobelia, on the left, and masterwort (Astrantia) on the right -- and they're there, but the lobelia is barely hanging on.

Before you conclude that my mulching of a few weeks ago is what drove them away -- I intentionally didn't mulch where the forget-me-nots usually grow. So who knows what happened.

Another garden mystery -- our tree fern. It was doing fine, apparently, all winter, and then suddenly within the last week or two all its fronds shriveled and turned crispy. It happened almost all at once. I thought perhaps it got too dry, but we had quite a rainy winter and I watered it a few times over the past month -- so I'm not sure how that would have happened. I cut most of the shriveled fronds off yesterday (which I discovered belatedly I'm not supposed to do). We'll see if it recovers.

Yesterday I repotted our toadflax and threw away the Plectranthus, which you may remember we got from Mrs. Kravitz (along with our mint) during the pandemic. Our local garden center was giving away its plants before lockdown and she took so many that she couldn't use them all. Plectranthus is usually grown as an annual, but we kept this one going for years. I'd bring it in every winter even though I sort of semi-hated it -- it was incredibly messy and dropped leaves everywhere. Finally, yesterday, I looked at that nest of dry sticks, only a few of which showed any signs of spring growth, and decided I'd had enough. It's in the trash.

Olga and I walked through the nearby housing estate, where she checked for the cats beneath a certain courtyard doorway, as is her custom. I'm not sure those cats are even alive anymore. There was no sign of them yesterday.

Afterwards, she lounged in the sun in the garden as I sat nearby and read. I just started a book called "The Satsuma Complex" by Bob Mortimer, a humorous mystery that I'm enjoying. I haven't read a book in several weeks -- I've felt overwhelmed just staying on top of the news online. But I finally made a conscious decision to set aside my devices and get back to books and The New Yorker, so that's what I'm doing.

As you can see, we have another healthy crop of teasels growing in the lawn. I may not mow this back area once again this year, so we'll have long grass and tall teasels and hopefully insect life.

Last night we watched "Queer," with Daniel Craig, a movie version of the William S. Burroughs novel released last year. It was directed by Luca Guadagnino, who also did "Call Me By Your Name," which I loved. I cannot say I loved "Queer." I've never much cared for Burroughs -- I find his writing impenetrable -- and movie versions of his work leave me feeling grimy. Too much sweat, alcohol, heroin and dissipation. Just watching could put a person in liver failure!

"Queer" also employed weird, artificial-looking sets and CGI effects, which I think are supposed to heighten the trippy feeling, but at the end of the day I was not impressed. I made it to the end, but Dave gave up about halfway through.