Unlike Baden-Powell and his boy scouts, who are trained to expect the unexpected, I find that the unexpected catches me out every time.That might be because I dodged intoning the pledge: there was never any dyb-dyb-dybbing or dob-dob-dobbing for me. As a consequence, I know next to nothing about woggles and my whittling skills aren't much to write home about either. It could also explain my failure to foresee the germination of those seeds and their subsequent rapid development.
Seeing as how space is running out rapidly, I may as well drop another gentle hint to the universe about that ten acres and associated infrastructure which I asked for in 2009. Last time it sent me respiratory failure and intensive care instead, but hey, isn't faith all about hope in the teeth of adversity?
The logistics of horticulture have always baffled me, but as I'm supposed to be orchestrating this rite of spring - in and out, sowing and growing on - I was hoping for andante non troppo from the yacons rather than prestissimo. They certainly can't go outside yet - the weather is truly atrocious, with wind, sleet, hail and the kind of rain that numbs your forehead and sticks your trousers to your thighs - a typical spring day in other words. If I won't go outside, I can hardly expect my delicate flowers to brave it.
Did I say delicate? They seem to be imbued with the kind of vigour described by the boozy bard Dylan Thomas as "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower". Frank van Keirsbilck, who gave me the seeds, didn't mention anything about lighting any touch-papers and standing well back. Some might call it schadenfreude, but he tells me that he now has twenty yacon seedlings of his own to house. I wish him luck. Honest.
So, as delighted as I am by the sight of these new yacons brimming with life force, I'm hoping I can arrest their development a little bit in order that they remain in their new detached des reses until I can plant them out. Now look here you lot - behave yourselves!