The division of opinion on the question of whether or not to lift tulip bulbs after the foliage has faded has been well rehearsed elsewhere, and I have no particular wisdom to offer on the subject.

I did decide to lift these bulbs of Tulipa ‘Claudia’ last spring, but this was largely because their accommodation–a pair of terracotta pots given the pleasing appearance of antiquity by the application of natural yoghurt and cunning–was required by some up and coming hostas.

The exercise proved interesting. When I lifted the bulbs, I was a little disquieted to see that most were affected by a dusty blue mould, and it was thus more in hope than expectation that I brushed them off and stored them, under a layer of foil, in the modules pictured above.

It was heartening, then, to see that almost every bulb had begun sprouting when I uncovered them for their return to the pots.

Nothing will be taken for granted, of course, until they begin to show in February or March, since there is still the small matter of the long, wet and dismal Wicklow winter with which they must contend.

While I realise that dried thyme has its adherents, I take the view that it is better preserved, outside the growing season, in the freezer.

As well as capturing more of the herb’s aromatic qualities, freezing thyme in a box like the one pictured above has the singular advantage of making it very easy to use when needed.

If you leave the thyme on the stem, the individual leaves are very easily shaken loose when frozen. So, when you need a teaspoonful for your mashed potatoes, you just take out your freezer box, perform a quick, maraca-style shake, and said quantity can be scooped from the bottom of the box with serene ease.

Hence today’s annual harvest, which left the plant with enough growth to stage a recovery in the spring, not to mention an endearing resemblance to Ernie from Sesame Street.

The starlings, I have just noticed, have returned. And in numbers too, which I suppose is hardly surprising. Six or seven of them can just now be seen in silhouette on a neighboring gable, picking at something on the tiles.

I hope it’s some kind of nasty moss. I hope they choke on it, the vile creatures.

This habit that starlings have, of descending, suddenly and in numbers, like a biker gang roaring into a quiet seaside village, scaring away all the nice blue tits and chaffinches who were happily coexisting around the feeder, prompts me to wonder whether we have a suitable collective noun for starlings, one that captures their malevolent and obnoxious essence.

We have a murder of crows, of course, and a collective noun that directly evokes a crime seems quite fitting for the peculiar odiousness of corvids.

However, the crime of which starlings can most fairly be accused is the admittedly lesser offence of stealing someone else’s lunch. A larceny of starlings? It’s not bad, but it isn’t quite right.

What is wanted is a collective noun that is charged with some of the presence of starlings, the surly and minatory quality which, along with unappealing spots, they share with schoolyard bullies.

I am going to suggest a belligerence of starlings. Just you see if it doesn’t catch on.

Gardenia jasminoides. 24 September. Peacefully, at home. Slightly missed by its owner, but not terribly, since it was a lot of trouble and could hardly ever be bothered to flower. Removal to compost heap after a brief ceremony.

No flowers, please.

Got a good look at a song thrush using my very modest new binocular.

It was doing the work of God and smashing a snail against the capstone of the garden wall.

This, according to the Collins Bird Guide, is the classic song thrush m.o..