Nothing rhymes with borage

I knew this day would come, the day inspiration deserted me. I was warned that I would run out of puns, and like a fickle trader, pretty soon people would see the signs and switch to another new, young, fresh blog. Today I've run dry. Borage, you have beaten me. But I soldier on in the hope that there are some die hards out there still feeling the hapless love...

I was really excited when I planted borage seeds back on 6 April. I sowed a line in compost formulated for seeds, in a wooden half barrel container, £14 extravegance from Riverside garden centre, complete with handles.

The young leaves quickly appeared and soon accompanied the unseasonal warmth in a glass of Pimms, their rumoured cucumber flavour proving joyously true.

Left - borage, middle - rocket, right - dill

But I'd never taken the trouble to understand just what a beast the plant becomes, and it wasn't until it had engulfed the helpless rocket and razed the dill to the ground that I realised I'd been misled. All the talk in books was about the flowers. How pretty they look in an ice cube, that they're edible and refreshing. Rubbish. Like living with a newborn and only telling people about the cuddles.

Borage is a beast and make no mistake. It needs its own home, it needs attention, watering and space. At least, that's my experience.If you don't, this is what happens:

This is part neglect part anger. Does that make me a bad person? Well, in gardening circles yes. Probably not in the company of dishonest police officers, politicians or journalists (sorry, this is the last time I'll reference 'the scandal'. I should probably start a separate blog to unleash my views the unholy trinity - although I do know a few good coppers, have worked for one good and one crazy politician, and once fancied a journalist. But she was on the magazine so that doesn't count).

I digress. Borage. Yes, overblown strumpet of a plant (is it ok to use that word in the 21st century, in a jovial context?). Yes it's seductive, but afterwards I felt cheated. Here was the promise:

My good friend Emma gave me a top tip from her good friend's book that we tried out. Put a borage flower in wine and it'll turn from bluey-purple (I'm sure there's a proper name for it) into pink. Well, it didn't. And it tasted of, well, wine. Humph.

The wine was good though...

I hope you're not squeamish...

Earlier this year I managed to repel an early aphid invasion on my broad beans.

Since then my beans have been aphid - free and have been slightly smug. Why not, it's always good when you get one over a creature the size of grit.

I don't know if aphids have a season, or how they actually travel. Do they fly? How do they just appear and then multiply? And where does the first one come from?

Much is written about companion planting. My approach has tended to be read it, forget about it, read again, buy the seeds, forget about it, plant it in the wrong place. But this year, by happy accident rather than design, I planted borage in a container next to the broad beans. I have more to write about borage, but just to say that there has been a second wave of aphids this year and thankfully, they've decided to go for the borage rather than the beans.

And so have the feasting ants. Yum: