Tiptoe through the... where are my tulips?

If these tulips can flower, why can't mine?

You plant bulbs. Give them just enough water and just enough sunshine. So where are the green shoots, asks Laurie Taylor in his weekly column for the Magazine.

I'm having serious trouble with my tulips. Four weeks ago I was full of hope as I planted three dozen bulbs in the two big blue pots on my apartment balcony.

Even though I recognised from my long experience with frozen meals that the eventual outcome was unlikely to bear much resemblance to the serving suggestion on the packet, I still managed to believe that my balcony might very soon become what the retailer called a riot of colour.

FIND OUT MORE Hear Laurie Taylor's Thinking Allowed on Radio 4 at 1600 on Wednesdays or 0030 on Mondays Or download the podcast here

But so far there is no evidence at all of my tulips rioting. Quite the contrary. Instead of a mob of colourful upstanding flowers, there is nothing so far to show for all my careful planting and assiduous watering than three one-inch high dark green shoots.

When these blades of green first appeared a week ago I regarded them as mildly precocious harbingers of my eventual floral display. While my other 33 bulbs had decided to enjoy the warmth of the deep earth for a few days longer, these three outsiders were so taken by the urge to bring forth bright flowers that they were prepared to risk the harsh above ground world of wind and frost.

I might have been able to maintain this optimistic mood if only there had been some further progress on the tulip front. If, for example, more shoots had appeared, or if the existing ones had shown clear signs of growth.

Come out, come out

But at yesterday morning's inspection - which I always undertake between my first cup of coffee and my sit-down bowl of Alpine muesli - there was no sign of movement whatsoever.

First snowdrops. Then daffodils and crocuses. *Then* tulips...

The 33 other bulbs which I'd planted showed no evidence whatsoever of wishing to poke their heads above the high-grade supermarket earth. And the three which had braved the real world appeared not one millimetre taller.

Indeed although I didn't have time to take my usual tape-measure to them, I had the uncomfortable sense that they were actually receding. Rather like moles, they had put their noses out of the ground, found the air not to their liking, and decided to scuttle back to their warm living rooms.

Quite frankly my patience is nearly exhausted.

And matters aren't helped by the impossibility of doing anything to remedy the situation. It's not as though I can take a trowel to the tubs, dig up the recalcitrant bulbs, take them back to the supermarket where they were purchased and demand a refund.

They're all clustered together down in their pots enjoying a joke at my expense

Unlike other products which are expected to do what it says on the tin, there seems to be an implicit assumption when it comes to nature that it is the gardener who must be at fault if riots of colour fail to materialise.

In the BBC canteen, I confided my frustration and disappointment to a colleague who cultivates a large garden in the suburbs. Did she have any explanation for my bulbs recalcitrance?

"You've watered them regularly?"
"Oh yes."
"You planted them deeply enough?"
"Oh yes."
"You've kept them out of the cold wind?"
"Oh yes."
"They're getting some midday sun?"
"Oh yes."

She looked genuinely puzzled for a moment and then gently suggested that the fault might lie in my own personality. "Sometimes plants can sense your impatience. They don't answer to human desires. They go their own sweet way. They're like kettles which never boil while they're attended. Don't think about them for a week and then see what happens."

Tulips. But in Amsterdam

I'll wait that week. But I doubt if my tulips will respond.

For even though I'll try not to give them a second thought, I've already developed the mildly paranoid notion that they're not only refusing to develop in the manner promised on the packet, but that they're all clustered together down in their pots enjoying a joke at my expense.

Nature, as the ecologists are so fond of warning us, does often like to have the last laugh.

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Below is a selection of your comments.

Are you certain you planted them the right way up?
Fred, Rotherham

A few years ago one of the regional BBC programmes had "Tulip Cam" a video cam trained on a pot of tulip bulbs on a patio... well for those of us who find paint drying too exciting it was an oasis. They pulled it before flowering day. I've never really got over the shock.
Vicky, London

I suspect squirrels - the little blighters have had my daffs, my crocus and my tulips, and with milder winters they don't hibernate any more.
Annette Bottomley, Keighley, West Yorks

You planted them too late. Bulbs should be planted in the autumn - they need to get cold first then warm up to sprout. stick them in the fridge then outside and see if that helps.
K, Edinburgh

My four-year-old bulbs are in full swing. My indoor bulbs have flowered and gone already. You could buy bulbs in pots and transfer them outside, but that works out to be very expensive.
Lee, Swindon, UK

It is only march. Tulips come out April/May.
Alice , Manchester, UK

LOL - isn't nature wonderful. Maybe gardening is the answer to teaching our kids patience & the need to nurture things to get the best from them instead of learning that you can get what you want NOW by throwing a moody.
Jude, Belfast, NI

I'm no expert but perhaps the problem lies in the fact that you only planted them four weeks ago - in my experience spring flowering bulbs only flower if you plant them in the autumn. Wait til next year, they'll probably be glorious then.
Holly, Manchester

What a fantastically written piece. While I don't give two hoots about flowers or gardening, this gave me a much-needed grin on a cold Thursday afternoon. As the yoofs would say, mad skillz Mr Taylor.
Troo, London, UK