114 Man’s world

In which our greviously wounded but still valiant Southern correspondent files a report from the frontlines of battle with the dreaded blue flower of death

Our Southern correspondent takes on the dreaded blue flower of death

Children, I come straight from the battlefield and I am weak from loss of blood and I cannot press very hard on the keys. Come closer now. I will say this only half a dozen times. It is advice to hug to your undeveloped bosoms, advice to never let go of, even at the risk of splitting an infinitive. Are you ready? Good.

Did I mention that I come straight from the battlefield? If so, forgive me. I grow forgetful with weakness. Children, I am dripping blood in the hope that you shall never have to. So listen children, please. For my sake and for yours, listen. Are you ready? Good.

If I were theatrical I would perform a drum roll. But when blood is dripping from one’s rent and tattered forearms, drum rolls seem unnecessary. All that is necessary is the simplicity of truth. Deception is complex, but the truth is simple. Are you ready for the simple truth? Good.

Without preamble then, here, children, is the advice for you to hug, the wisdom bought with blood, the great truth told in six simple words: learn the name of your enemy. There. I have said it. Learn the name of your enemy. That is all.

I knew you would not find it momentous. But it is momentous. To illustrate its momentousness, let me, if my strength holds out, tell you a story. And if my strength does not hold out, well, my strength does not hold out.

Children, I bought a house a dozen years ago. It came with a bank by the drive. The bank was planted with pretty things, children, things that flowered in spring and summer – oh it chokes me now to think of them. There was a rhododendron with flowers of flamingo froth. There was a redcurrant bush, a pretty snowball shrub, and a Mexican orange blossom, all fragrance and sombreros. But down in one corner at the foot of the drive, where all was dank and nameless, was a patch of something glossy with a blueish flower. It sang a song of insidiousness. But children, I did not ask its name.

Some things in this life happen suddenly. Others happen by stealth, unnoticed until perhaps a dozen years later when a woman who has learned the names of enemies comes to visit.

“What a lot,” said the woman who has learned the name of enemies, “of Vinca minor.” “Vinca minor?” I said. “Periwinkle,” she said. “Periwinkle?” I said. “The dreaded periwinkle,” she said and she plucked a sprig from the bank and thrust it towards me in condemnation. “Look, it’s taken over.”

Children, I looked. And when I looked, I saw. Periwinkle had indeed taken over. Where once the snow had balled, the rhododendron frothed and the Mexican blossomed, was now a sea of periwinkle. Had I known the enemy by name I would have noticed its spread. But we notice only what we have words for.

Now I did not hesitate. I leapt onto the bank and I tore at the dreaded periwinkle. I ripped it here, I ripped it there. I tore it off in massive wads. My arms bled; I fought on. I stripped the peri and I stripped the winkle. Leaves and petals flew. Flues and petals left. I was on a mission.

But the conclusion is almost too sad to tell. Beneath the smothering mat of periwinkle, I found only skeletons, the bones of a rhododendron long past frothing, the remains of – but I falter. I cannot go on. Children, I beg you, learn the name of your enemy. The rest is silence.