Sometimes I wonder how people go about their daily lives this time of year, with all this insanity blossoming all around. I mean, look at this:


It's better than porn.

One place where they take full advantagge of the horniness of the season is the Fens.  As I crossed the Muddy River on my way to the garden this morning, I noticed a path of glory had already been carved through the high, narrow wall of phragmites that lines its banks...


If you look closely, about halfway back, there's one of those plastic milk crates in the path, which is all a practiced hand needs to make a little romance from a chance encounter.  I mean, you don't want your new beau face down in the mud, do you?  Put him on a little pedestal.  Make him feel like queen for a day — or at least a minute or two.

They always hack back the phragmites this time of year, and burn sections of it off, almost right to the Muddy River bank. Back in the day, this stretch, which is about ten feet wide, I'd say, was at least three or four times what it is now, and there was a labyrinth of little paths to rival the Hampton Court Palace Hedge Maze.

Although this has not been my scene for some time (at least since I started gardening in the Fens — "don't shit where you eat," as my old friend Ricardo used to say), I admire the sticktoitiveness of some of the regulars, many of whom I recognize from my first forays into the phragmites coming on fifteen years ago now (and I get the feeling they were old-timers then). There's a slightly purgatorial air about it all, it's true.  They're there night and day, waiting, watching, wandering in and out of the phragmites — unwavering keepers of the maze. 

But at least they're getting out of the house.  And there's a certain esprit de corps among the hardcore cocksuckers.  A community of like-minded folks gathering to offer their services in a free exchange of fluids.  Spring is a generous season.  Let it flow.