|On the positive side......|
Surprisingly, a bad memory can have advantages: I can watch a film I saw a fortnight ago and still be happily surprised at the ending - a library of five films and the same number of books will keep me happy into eternity; equally, it isn't a problem when I'm out walking with my hiking mates, I suspect we tell the same story ad infinitum and yet all remain happy, supremely unbored and wondrous at the creativity of our companions in continually coming up with new stuff. The problem comes when older persons communicate with younger ones. Watch for the signs - if the young person's eyes begin to roll when he thinks you aren't looking, or if he suddenly drops off, then you are doing what your grandad did to you way back.
The relevance of my memory came home to me forcibly a couple of nights ago: I'm involved in a play at The Lowry Theatre in Salford and we were rehearsing. I have a speaking part and my lines are 'Keith Scott' - I don't think I'll ever be competing with Kenneth Branner for the role but I suppose even he had to start somewhere. Anyway, one of the female leads (a real actor) is playing the part of a school head at a pupils' reunion and she wrongly addresses my character as 'George'. I correct her, saying 'Keith' but she ignores me and calls me 'George Brown', to which I say 'Scott'. While recognising that the part didn't have quite as much meat as 'Hamlet', I had meticulously researched it and was looking forward to producing a dazzling performance. However, at this point I became aware of the other fifty members of the cast all looking expectantly at me and I froze. The only comment which came to mind was 'er, oh shit!' but this I discarded on the basis that some of the crowd looked as if they came from polite backgrounds. Unfortunately, Scott had disappeared as completely as his namesake at the South Pole.
I now have 'Keith Scott' written on the back of my hand.
And herbaceous plants can disappear overwinter as completely as Keith Scott, the difference being that, given enough chance, they'll probably reappear.The trouble is that a gardener is often keen to get the bed sorted early in the year and so starts hoisting out the weeds which have capitalised on the odd mild spell, This results in the removal of friend as well as foe and for this reason I used to carefully stick plastic labels in during autumn. These were equally carefully removed by magpies and redistributed in the wrong places. Happily, my conversion to the system of leaving dead herbaceous stems in overwinter (because of the wildlife benefits) has resulted in the easy springtime location of the wanted plants. The magpies have had to turn their attentions to other anti-social habits, like removing the putty from round next-door's windows.
Talking about anti-social habits, I was flummoxed a couple of days ago when I returned to a path I'd only recently recovered from a covering of dead leaves. It had once again disappeared under further leaves. I re-cleared it, dumping them on the adjacent bed where they would work as a useful mulch and eventually break down to enrich the soil. Then I kept watch from the kitchen window each time I went in . This time guilt went not to magpies, but a blackbird who turned up soon afterwards and, with much head - cocking and what I fancied to be a malicious grin (quite difficult when you've got a beak), proceeded to flip leaves from the adjacent bed, presumably in a search for worms.
This is what gardening is all about: it's a war against cats who find seed beds ideal for digging and crapping in; pigeons who strip the Amelanchier and Cotoneaster of berries before I can enjoy their glow; squirrels who bury conkers in my lawn when not pinching the bird food and next door's teenager who uses my garden as a repository for his football, smashing plants in the process. Actually, I can think of a more appropriate repository but, as you know, I'm very polite.
I think I'll take up stamp collecting.