The holly and the ivy

I never take my phone into the garden unless there’s something I want to photograph.

The reception’s rubbish out there and the network non-existent. Thank god. Everyone needs a little freedom of thought.

I was pulling ivy off the base of the tree yet again. It’s tenacious, persistent, unremittingly ingenious and resilient. Who wouldn’t want that on their personal statement?

What the statement wouldn’t mention is that it needs constant management, without which it will relentlessly make a mess of everything. A nightmare. We all know one of those.

Of course it’s beautiful and of course it’s a source of food and cosy habitat. There are moths and bees that like nothing better. I try to focus on that.

Wonderful wintery myths and legends are entangled with ivy and holly.

In folklore, ivy is said to represent unbreakable friendship, bonds that endure whatever falls into their path.

I just don’t want it in my actual path.

My holly’s another character altogether. A single tiny weedy thing. Self-seeded on the periphery from a berry dropped from a festive bough on its way to the compost, perhaps? Or maybe a bird planted it for me?

It’s about six inches high with precisely three tatty leaves. I won’t pull it up - bad things happen to those that cut down holly, they say. Doing so could invite a visit from an evil spirit.

An extremely tiny one, I imagine.

The holly and the ivy have worked their magic for me. They distract and hold on to my attention long enough for my head to clear and my thoughts to focus. Ish.