One year Shaun bought me a lime tree for Christmas. Not last Christmas, not the one before ... I can hardly even remember when it was. I know we were in our previous house, so I'd say it was seven Christmases ago.
When he gave me it I was delighted. It was exactly the present I'd asked for. I looked after it, expecting it to repay me with bountiful fruit.
At this point I should state that I am not the best citrus-tree owner. I would like to be, it's just that I forget it's there. And therefore the poor thing goes unwatered for weeks at a stretch.
I'd pretty much given up on our lime tree actually producing fruit until last year. A wet summer meant, lo and behold, A LIME!
One. Little. Lime.
We stroked it and nurtured it and eventually when it reached about the size of a cumquat, we picked it.
We cut it open: it was virtually juiceless. Still, this was a victory. We had produced a lime.
This year, however, things are much improved. Oh yes.
We have many, many little limes.
The secret to our success?
My son is toilet training. So where do I deposit the wees that go in his potty? Said lime tree.
It's working a treat.