Roger Moroney: Murphy's Law rules in my garden

Tempting fate. Murphy's law. If something can go wrong it will go wrong.

Call it what you like, I call it gardening.

That most remarkable series of natural events which are steered by earth and climatic conditions and the skill of the hands of those who fettle and furrow the soil.

Those who have an affinity with the land are said to have green fingers.

Mine are sort of pinky and with scars and blotchy patches of white and the occasional ageing freckle, not a hint of even a pastel mint hue.

Yet I am undeterred, and each year, as the spring slowly and cautiously sparks into life, I go searching for the shovel and the rake and I begin to prepare what I call the north field, even though it is at the southern end of the section.

The winter had not been kind to the north field and creeping couch grass had successfully staged its annual off-season invasion.

What is it with weeds?

Unlike the tomato, the capsicum and the lettuce, the likes of couch and the other vile things which are their allies are not susceptible to cold and frosts or excessive water or excessive heat. You can stand on them and they will not flinch. You can ignore them and they will simply grow stronger.

But the veges, they are effectively the sissies of the garden.

One mistake, one failure to water or hoe their foundations and it's all over.

I spent an afternoon digging and sifting and plucking out little bulbs which spark that clover-like stuff that spreads like a spilled merlot on a shag pile.

At the end of the day it looked a picture.

Not exactly a Rembrandt, but a reasonably accomplished illustration.

There it lay, that well-tilled soil made dark by the showering of water I applied to it, masking the crusty bits of chipped firewood, snails, rotting leaves and offerings from the neighbourhood cats.

But this year, conscious that I was born with normally coloured fingers, I sought advice.

There was a time I would sprinkle a bag of blood and gore or whatever over the soil and rake it all in, then plant the living things which would eventually die or at best evolve into vegetables best described as midgets.

Last year's five green capsicums were the size of golf balls.

The chillis just threw in the towel by mid-January and the broccoli looked like miniature oak trees, they just speared off into silly branches.

So I went to a garden centre and along with grabbing a bag of fertiliser grabbed a few words from someone whose fingers appeared as green as the very grass itself.

He told me to dig good-sized planting holes in the soil (which is gluggy and pretty poor in quality) and fill them with planting mix. A dark and moist sort of horticultural muesli.

Then plant the plants amidst this thick mix, and fill up the rest of the hole with more of it. Basically like being in a sort of micro-climate where they are immune from the sorry excuse for soil surrounding them.

It made sense, so I bought the stuff and spent an hour planting my latest crop.

The class of 2011/12 I call them.

And so far, 10 days down the track and having had to endure a light frost last Thursday morning and some terrible cold and rain two nights earlier, they are still there.

Green and standing, although with no noticeable increase in growth yet. Even the fragile-looking mesclun lettuce stuff is at attention.

While not yet in the company of Prince Charles, who is known to stand and talk to the surrounding trees and shrubbery, I did yesterday morning cast a glimpse toward the north field and heard myself say "everything appears to be alright?"

I said it as a question.

To whom?

The capsicums or the broccoli?

So allow me now to return to the opening passages of this instalment of Me and My Garden.

I spoke of tempting fate. Of Murphy's Law. Of everything just sort of going too well to be true. Something must be amiss.

Well the north field looks terrific, and the strong winds have certainly not affected the little green soldiers for the garden is in the sheltered and shaded lee of the garage. A great silver birch which stands close and almost overhead also offers fine UV protection from our ozone-depleted atmosphere.

That's when I read the fine print on the planting tags.

Everything I planted requires "direct sunlight".

Oh.

Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.