More on Cock-a-Doodle-Poo

One or two of you have (out of idle curiousity no doubt) asked whether
I was going to post the somewhat flippant article I sent to a local
newsgroup on this subject.  At first I though I'd lost it, but it has
come to light, so here goes..... I make no apologies 

Dave Poole
TORQUAY  UK

Sunday July 4  1999 :  A Cautionary Tale

Determined to 'keep on top of things' this year and not allow any
problems - pestilential or otherwise, spoil what promises to be the
best summer yet in the garden, I decided to spend yesterday morning
'ferreting about' looking for trouble waiting to start.  The soil
around the base of a big Musa basjoo was in very poor condition and
although drainage there should be absolutely perfect, I had noticed
earlier this week, that it was taking a very long time for water to
soak through.  This plant is fed heavily several times a week with at
least 3 gallons of Miracle-Gro each time.  I suspect the combination
of this together with daily, constant drenching is the reason for such
a dramatic decline in soil quality.  Effectively all that remains in
that area is a silt-like sludge with no heart in it at all.   In
another spot, only a couple of yards away, the soil around the base of
a sulking Oleander was almost like pure sand, draining so quickly that
on a hot day, it becomes dust dry only an hour after being drenched.  

Elsewhere, Brugmansias and Citrus where showing signs of slight
magnesium deficiency and several very large plants in containers
looked as though they were just starting to 'run out of steam'.  For a
few moments, I puzzled over how to combat all of this as effectively
and quickly as possible.  Suddenly, that light bulb appeared above my
head and I rushed off up the road to the local garden centre and came
back with a huge drum of Red Rooster 'Pelleted Poultry Poo'.  I also
came back with the most stunningly coloured 'Cape Fuchsia' - Phygelius
'Sensation' which has possibly the sexiest coloured flowers I've seen
for a long time, but more of that later.  I heaved the drum of pellets
onto the patio and with almost wanton abandon, ripped off the top and
started spreading the stuff about with all the profligacy of colonial
farmer sowing his oats.  It didn't take long for the error of my ways
to become apparent.  

Now, Poultry Poo in its pelleted form is not that unpleasant to
handle.  It is clean, it is convenient, it breaks down very quickly
and its organic nature can do wonders for a poor soil.  However, I've
normally only used it in spring before, when the temperatures are
considerably lower.  It pongs a bit then, but that is nought compared
to the truly evil stench that had me reeling in a standing faint as I
gasped for breath in the late morning heat.  Then there were the
flies.  Where they came from, I can only hazard a guess, but the
world's population cried "Yippee!", rose from their feastings on dog
dirt in London, rotting carcasses in the African bush, cow pats in the
Dordogne and headed off for a tiny garden on the outskirts of
Torquay.  

Within minutes there was a black, rumbling, thunder-cloud of buzzing
ogres, wheeling overhead like some vast, animated twister before
hitting ground.  I ran for cover, slammed the door, closed all windows
and repaired to the pub to watch the tennis.  Several calming hours
later, mellowed in a wash of the 'old amber nectar', I ventured home
half expecting a barrage of protest from irate neighbours who had been
planning an afternoon barbecue.  Nothing of the sort - peace and
tranquility had returned to my little patch of Eden.  Where only a few
hours before, you might have been forgiven for thinking there was a
refuse tip for the local abattoir out back, the fragrance of Jasmine,
Callas and Zaluzyanskia wafted on the evening air.  I watered Epsom
Salts into the Citrus and Brugmansias, stood back and waited for them
to green up immediately.  Of course they didn't, but we all stand back
and half expect to see some miracle before our eyes don't we?  

And the flies?  Back in Africa I suppose.
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