
The last minute is something of a double-edged sword. As someone who works in publishing, nothing ever gets finished early. It's always down to the wire, and if it wasn't for the last minute, nothing would get done. However, the last minute is a bloody awful time to make decisions. We're not talking spontaneous action, or even acting on impulse here - both of which are good - but we're talking about last minute changes of heart, which are usually born out of panic.
When I was a lad, the Boys' Catholic Grammar School stood across the park from the Girls' Catholic Grammar School. When you were in your last year, they held a Christmas Dance, at which boys and girls were allowed to mingle. For the Boys, it was a rite of passage. If you turned up alone, your final year was one of misery as you'd be attacked and vilified for being unable to pull a girl. If you didn't turn up at all, the same was implied. One year, unable to find a girl to take, one lad turned up with his sister. Word got out, and within two weeks of the new term he had to be moved to another school for his own safety.
Now, as I have mentioned in previous posts, my friends and I weren't the usual run-of-the-mill kids. We were already outcasts, shunned by the masses. We were largely ignored, and because there was a small pack of us, the bullies also left us alone. It therefore was an obvious decision when we agreed to a man (well, to a boy) to boycott the dance. While the other boys and girls paired off and planned for the big night, we just got on with drinking cider and setting things on fire.
Then it happened. Kevin was out with Dave, and they bumped into Louise. Now, Louise had a reputation, the kind of reputation that young boys like. When she asked Kev to the dance, he thought about her reputation and agreed immediately. Then Dave, discovering that she had a friend with equally loose morals, decided to go too. When they saw Steve, they told him, and so he quickly asked Liz, and her friend was left out so Colin decided to go as well. By the time the news got to me, every single one of them was fixed up and going to the bloody dance.
I decided not to cave in, and vowed that even alone, I would not be going. The others warned me, they begged me, but I refused. I would not be dancing for anyone.
On the morning of the dance, I made that last minute decision. It was, sadly, to go. I was screwed without a partner, so I set out to find one, and quickly. Many were already going, a few weren't contactable, and one told me she'd rather die than go out with me. The day raced by with no success. It was 5pm, and it started at 7pm. There was only one thing to do; Lorraine.
Lorraine was the butcher's daughter. She smelled of meat. Her head was slightly misshapen. Her stutter was only obvious when she spoke. That said, she had a rather large pair of breasts - some might say too large for a smallish girl - and a mouth to put a docker to shame. I went into the butcher's shop, and her Dad called her out from the back, where she was splitting a pig.
She accepted, and despite me being one of the ne'er-do-wells, her Dad was so pleased he might get his freak daughter off his hands that he shook my hand and gave me a pound of liver. He told me I might need the iron, adding a wink in case I didn't realise he was alluding to me having sexual intercourse with his daughter.
On the way to dance we necked a bottle of sherry I had liberated from my Mum's cooking cupboard. It made me feel a bit better, but it went straight to her head. She was stuttering and staggering and swearing, shouting obscenities and making lewd gestures whilst trying to kiss me as we entered the darkened room. Despite the darkness, the whole place stopped to stare. It just wasn't dark enough. What had I done? Why had I come? Why with Lorraine? The room smelled of offal. I knew it was her.
We danced, for about a minute. Then she grabbed me and stuck her tongue in my mouth. It tasted of pork fat. Everyone was watching, so I pushed her away. She staggered backwards, and then started to cry. It wasn't a tear trickling down her greasy cheek, more a sobbing wail. Everyone was watching, so I had to do something. I tried to comfort her, but she just screamed, then spewed on my shoes. I heard someone laugh. She tried to kiss me again, and as I drew back in horror she dropped to the floor and started twitching. It transpired she was an epileptic, a point that I felt her father might have found worth mentioning when he tried to give me sufficient iron for the night ahead.
A teacher brought up the lights and rushed to help. I was standing there, in a now very well lit room, with vomit-splattered shoes, while my date twitched on the floor. Everyone stood and stared. Then I noticed, as her legs twitched, that she wasn't wearing any underpants. The others noticed too. Kev said, "She's not wearing any underpants!" See, I don't make this shit up!
So, what's this got to do with my garden? I'll tell you, now that I've settled down after reliving that momentous episode of my youth. When I started this gardening lark, I was going to plant two lots of potatoes: Arran Pilot and Pink Fir Apple. Then, as I read the blogs of others, they were planting four, five, ten, even dozens of varieties. I told myself that two was enough, and then I panicked and made a last minute decision to grow three. The only variety I could get seed potatoes for quickly was Sante, so I added them to the list.
The Sante grew slowly, but steadily. During the drought episode, they survived well, and during the blight scare they seemed unaffected. As the others grew to a height of around 4 feet before collapsing into a mess, they stayed upright. Then as the weather changed, they died off rather quickly. I lifted them, dried them and bagged them up.
Now, here's what I have learned. All of my potatoes had exactly the same conditions, but there have been significant differences. Sante are an easy spud to grow, very easy. They also seem tolerant of heat, drought, over-watering, disease and frost. They were less hassle than the others. However, the crop was poor. Yields were at best below average, and at worse virtually non-existent. The potatoes themselves fall apart under cooking. The outsides are crumbling before the centres are cooked. It's not a floury collapse, more of a mushy one. Oh yes, and they're tasteless.
Say what you like, but Sante will not be welcomed in my garden next year.