The young lads from Cobham remind me of the wild *muringa* saplings that spring up behind my compost heap — plenty of vigour, but you have to graft them onto a sturdy stem or they topple in the first squall. Sitting here with my second cup of coffee, watching yet another manager find out that a few cups of good *chai* do not make a monsoon, I wonder: do we want a garden of tender leaves or a tree that bears shade and fruit in equal measure? But then, the club buys a ready-made mango from the market while the sapling withers for want of water. I suppose that is what you call progress in Chelsea.
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