The Humble Geranium

You can’t beat a geranium for colour, pizzazz and downright cheerfulness. They are reliable, hardy and easy to grow. I met my first geranium in 1988 when I shared a flat with my brother in inner London. The flat was a complete dump but outside the window in the living room was a flower box with an almost dead geranium in it. It was one long, useless stalk but it was sitting in soil that had turned rock hard and with all the toxins of the city and obvious neglect, it did really well to keep going. I felt sorry for it, so I took to watering it everyday or when I remembered. Some months later, my efforts were rewarded when out of the end of the useless stalk, a tiny red bloom appeared. I was so proud of the little fella and felt gratified.
I have been a fan of the brave geranium ever since. My husband hates them; he says their pong aggravates his hay fever. Nevertheless, shortly after we moved into the marital home – a glorified shoe box – I trotted down to the garden centre at the first opportunity and bought three pots of flaming red geraniums. I put my new treasures on the window ledge in the bathroom where they could enjoy the most sun. Hubbie wasn’t happy but his grumblings went unheeded.
We were always getting locked out of our flat but luckily we lived on the ground floor and so we kept the tiny bathroom window slightly open at all times, confident that no passing burglar would attempt to climb through something so small. My husband, being a fair sized chunk of man, and me being a virtual dwarf, it was left up to me to do all the ‘breaking and entering.’ But that window was very small and there would be moments when I would get stuck and I’d panic thinking that I was going to plummet head first into the toilet bowl which was directly underneath. One particular day, Hubbie rings me at work to tell me that he was at home but was locked out and would I be leaving anytime soon. Out of pure meanness, I told him that I didn’t have a key either and that I was damned if I was going to climb through that bloody window yet again. When I got home, Hubbie had shed as many of his clothes as was decently possible and was hanging out the window with one leg in and one leg out. “Mind my geraniums,” I barked at him and with sweat pouring from his brow, he very patiently plucked up each geranium from inside the window and handed them out to me. “Come to momma,” I crooned at my babies, and after I set them down gently on the ground, I turned back to my husband and told him that I had the key after all. He cursed me and after a few minutes when he managed to extricate himself from the window, with all his limbs intact, I smiled brightly at him and said “Did you enjoy that?” He grinned back and said, “Not as much as this!” and then stooping down, he plucked up the three geraniums and flung them across the car park. I managed to rescue the plants and most of the soil – the pots were smashed to bits – and they continued to thrive back on the bathroom shelf, despite their mauling.