In spite of this, and the subsequent difficulties the Italian agricultural sector is facing, I decided to try and grow some of my own food on my 95 cm x 25 cm windowsill. I know that sounds ridiculously small, and it is. But just out of interest, here's what I've managed to fit in that space (including four pots, in all different shapes and sizes):
- 8 pea plants
- 3 future laurel bushes (which are currently only 15 cm high)
- 22 bean plants
- 20 radishes
- Much more basil, which was originally planted in one pot but now keeps cropping up everywhere
- About 5 mini apple trees which came up from seeds from my supermarket-bought apples, and which I really didn't expect to do anything
- One small olive tree, which was already there last year.
Quite impressive, right?
But let me take a few steps back. Once I'd bought the pots and filled them with soil, ready to plant the seeds, I wake up one morning to find twigs and earth all over the place.
After standing there stupidly for a while, I decide that it was most likely the neighbor upstairs with her washing. Since my floor of the building is quite short, when she hangs out her bedding or towels or anything else that size, it very often hangs down to eye level in front of my window.
So I think, "Ok, she didn't do it on purpose". I pick up all the spilled earth etc. and put it back in the pots.
The next morning I wake up and it's the same business all over again.
I diligently clean up - again - and put the soil back in the pots, mainly just thinking "well, that's odd".
The next morning I wake up and it's worse than ever. Now, I try my best to be a calm person in my everyday life, but by nature I am somewhat highly strung, so by now I am not so peaceful about the whole situation.
The problem is, there's no washing hanging on the line upstairs, so how can I blame it on my neighbor? There is no window opposite this one, and anyway who would dig up my little pots just out of spite? Could it be that the spirits are playing tricks on me for their own amusement?
Then I hear a familiar flutter of wings down below and I realize who the culprit is...
There he sits, two floors down and one building across, on an abandoned balcony among old forgotten blankets and other dusty remnants.
He looks at me sideways. He has that guilty look and I just know he's grinning inwardly. He's just thinking "So what are you going to do? Stand at the window all day? You're going to have to turn your back on me sooner or later."
So I get to work. I cut a long piece of thick cardboard with a jagged edge to fit along the top front edge of my pots. I then tie a piece of string along the front, a bit further up. I also glue two old CDs together and hang them from above, so they swing and sparkle in the wind.
That'll show him!
The next morning I wake up and almost immediately go to the window. Obviously, all my new "decorations" are still in place, minus the soil, which is all over the place again.
I go to shower. As I'm drying myself off, through the misty window I see the pigeon do a helicopter-style vertical landing, wings closed, right in the middle pot, through the space remaining between the window glass and the string.
With the veins in my forehead now bulging dangerously far out, I run over to the window, still dripping water all over the place, and BANG on the window.
The pigeon, as one might expect, leaves a reminder of his brush with death in my plant pot, and attempts a hasty take-off through the restraining string. He gets away fine, but takes the plant pot over the edge with him.
Now it's my turn to have a heart attack because, well... I live on the sixth floor and if a pot falls on somebody's head from that height it will probably kill them.
I open the window and luckily find the pot hanging by the string... perfectly upright!
So I get dressed, and sit down to make a homemade barbed-wire "cage" for my future plants.
I even tie a crow's feather to the front, thinking maybe he'll recognize it and stay away.
I then faithfully plant the seeds and wait for my plants to grow.
The days pass and no more holes appear.
The days turn into weeks. The seeds into plants. I feel I have won the battle.
Until this morning, that is.
I wake up to find my feathered friend on the very edge of the windowsill, his head through the tiniest square of space, tugging at the corner of the pot he can reach.
Now, by this point my window already looks embarrassingly like some sort of voodoo shrine. So I have decided, rather than freaking my girlfriend out even more by adding more rubbish to my window, I will have to admit defeat and let him keep his corner...
