Ode to a dead chilli tree

I would be the very first to admit that I am not entirely botanically minded. Plants do not respond to my touch with love and care. I am more of the hack, slash and burn mentality when it comes to gardening, my success is usually measured by the pile of dead things I have removed from a garden rather than the swathe of growth that others may measure by.

That said, I have had a number of minor successes on the gardening front. My window boxes of geraniums in my flat in London were a source of pride and joy, the fact that they survived a whole winter outside was impressive to me. My crowning glory on the gardening front, however, had to have been my chilli tree  (plant?) that I had grown from seed. Four seeds came from the packet, two plants grew, one survived the first harsh winter in my flat and grew to produce countless small fiery red chillies. I was immeasurably pleased with it. Naturally, when departing the shores of the UK in the summer of 2009, I needed someone to tend to it carefully, to fill it with love, to continue to harvest it’s rich fruit. My brother stepped forward. All would be well I supposed.

Tragically, as the title of the post suggests, this was not to be. Yesterday, via Skype video call where I was wishing my father happy birthday, the topic of the chilli tree came up, and a withered dead stick in a pot was displayed on the screen. My brother did at least have the good grace to look fairly sheepish. Thus endeth a botanical relationship, thank you, chilli tree, for all those fine chillies you provided me with, sorry I was not able to find you a safer home.

In other news, we watched Across the Universe last night, in an ongoing attempt to synchronise our cultural memes. It’s a musical, in the same sort of style as Moulin Rouge, but all the songs in it are by the Beatles. So if you are into the Beatles, and/or decent musicals (I’m sorry Mother, but I’m not including Mamma Mia! in that list), then it’s worth a look! Enjoy your Sunday.


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