Somewhat bizarrely, my parent’s garden contains a crop of opium poppies. They are quite striking; glorious colours and well over 5 feet tall. Our best guess as to their origin is that a nearby farm was growing them for medical research purposes, and via wind or bird some of the seeds made the 2-mile odd journey to our garden. My Dad gets quite noidy about them, wondering whether by merely allowing their continued presence on his land he is breaking some sort of law. Every year as they reach flower, he resolves to uproot them, and every year I convince him to relax.
One year, I picked off a number of the mature seed pods and drained them of the seeds within. I then went to visit my girlfriend in London with the seeds stored in my pocket. Whilst the girlfriend was distracted by an Argos mag I had cunningly left open in the kitchen, I slipped into her garden and danced around, laughing an evil laugh as I liberally scattered my harvest around her garden.
[that wasn't intended to sound a bit rude. Stop being dirty]
The next spring I could see that the seeds had taken hold in dramatic style, and as I surveyed the garden I could count scores of poppies sprouting through. I rubbed my hands together in a most sinister fashion, pleased with the success of my mischief making and the head-scratching confusion that was surely soon to follow.
A couple of weeks later, and the girlfriend dumped me due to an unrelated matter. Upset, obviously, I consoled myself with the fact that there was a chance of her being arrested for cultivating Class A substances and going to prison for a very long time. “How do you like them apples, bitch?!?” I imagined myself crowing from the court's public gallery.
Frustratingly, a couple of weeks later she moved out of the house. Foiled!
So, if you happen to know of a house on Grafton Road in London’s Kentish Town/ Gospel Oak which backs onto a primary school and that has a bumper Opium crop each summer… that’s down to me.
5 weeks ago