It’s pineapple war. I did not see this coming. I’d cleared some of the Upper 40 (the uphill part of the garden) for future things not yet germinated, but I wasn’t quick enough. Mr Landlord has taken over this area and planted baby pineapples.

I don’t like pineapples. I don’t eat them. Also, I don’t like the plants. They’re a big thorny pain, in every sense. They take up so much space, for something that will not contribute to my stomach.

I admit, I secretly vowed to sabotage at least one of them. The seedlings don’t always “take”, especially with me kicking them around. Think what you like. I may talk myself out of this later.

mother pineapple decapitated, baby’s head planted nearby

It’s a semi-feudal scene here. There are no boundaries: I rent the bungalow but technically not the land, even though I take care of the land. So when I thought I’d lost ground, literally, in my own back yard, I had to remind myself it’s not really my own backyard.

I will also remind myself that Mrs L’s secret vice (she’d see it as an entitlement) is to get up very early, go into her tenants’ gardens with a big basket, and take what she likes. This is while they’re still sleeping, so I think she knows she’s being naughty. The neighbourhood has collected quite a soap opera history of this sort of thing. (Mauro lost a bushel of aubergines, these nice little white sweet ones.)

As a result, I tend to plant stuff she either doesn’t like or already has.

I will plant chilies in pots and put them in between the frigging pineapples. Maybe a beanpole teepee can go around each pineapple as well? Will we then argue about stealing sunshine from them?

I know, I know, it’s not Syria. I know.

Nonetheless, I insist that when those refugees find their way to a home, they might just want a garden.   For some, it’s the ultimate symbol of Home. So, once any homeless family is safe and sound, maybe they’ll have some nice kitchen table arguments about what to grow in their new garden.

“But I hate brussels sprouts!”

“You’ll need a greenhouse for peaches, in this climate!”

If I were back in a northern land, right now in the gardening year I’d already have chosen my bulbs for the spring, already wanting an antidote to the long cold winter. I’d have planned a wave of them, in different colours.

Outdoors: snowdrops in January, crocus in February, daffodils in March.

Indoors: a sequence of smelly hyacinths.

This would all be engineered to cheer me up as the grey days dragged on, to keep hoping for a warmer time. Gardens cultivate hope.

I don’t think they have a toast for planting seeds, or bulbs. Perhaps we should. I’ll sow my latest chili crop this weekend. The last lot failed – rotted in the monsoon damp. I’ll dedicate the new ones to everyone getting the garden they hope for. That’s the proposed garden toast.

red baby pineapple, southern Thailand