So I’m failing on the writing front – having done surprisingly little fiction writing work since the beginning of the year, in fact – but I am at least succeeding on the “growing chilli plants” front, in that most of the seedlings I planted a few months back have resolutely failed to die, despite their sole source of care being me, a man whose plans today involved leaving early and going for a swim, but in reality involved a mini-pizza for breakfast and a stop at KFC on the way to the pub.
I’ve tried growing plants a number of times over the years, only to see the lot of them drop dead at a moment’s notice due to some combination of overwatering, underwatering, overfertilising, underfertilising, too little sunlight, and too much sunslight. Because plants are finicky little buggers who need to buck their ideas up and stop being entitled snowflakes. These guys seem to be still alive – and it feels suspiciously like someone’s rushed out to the plant-pound and replaced the seedlings with identical ones every time they die so I don’t get upset.
Whether they’ll live long enough to bear fruit, and for that fruit to ripen in my cold, cold rented house is anyone’s guess. But I’m already having to look into greenhouses, and even have elaborate plans to knock together a moving greenhouse so that I can actually use the one patch of sun in my garden from time to time rather than turning it over to some green scroungers on a full-time basis. Who knows, I’ll probably blog about it again.