At Mickleham you were one of my first Favourite roses, tough, free flowering, not much scent but so worthwhile, with your fabulous colours.

You flowered constantly for more than 20 years, with not much attention and even managed to survive the bushfire not eight foot from you… a double brick house collapsed next to you and you soldiered on… boy you are tough….

So. When we moved, I couldn’t take all of the roses. I have previously written about the very special one we did bring, so when I found one of Candy Stripe looking sad and neglected in Bunnings throw out box, and knowing how tough you were, I confidently  brought you home, planted you in the rose garden at the new place, with visions of bouquets of gloriously striped roses.

A year on… what a disappointment. It’s… useless…. you just sit there looking sad… I am thrown an occasional flower just to show me you are indeed the right rose, and apart from that… nothing. You are the black rose of your family.

I have pruned, fed, fertilised, Seasoled, cuddled, spoken severely, watered, pruned, fed, fertilised, weeded, sprayed with liquid feed, sung to you and shouted at you, showed the photo of yourself at the previous place as an example of what I expect…

I am reduced to gazing at you and sighing lugubriously and now I am showing you the shovel…

If you don’t come up to what I expect you to be in the autumn flush… the long ride in the wheelbarrow awaits.

Do you take my warning?

Signed Fran.