Skip to main content

Slug Food, Chelsea and Underage Drinking

A week ago I bit the bullet and planted some sweet peas to go up the trellis of my new border. I bought some and then T&M and the Beth Chatto Garden gave me a packet each, so in a free-spirited frame of mind I planted the lot.

Now, where I grew up there are slugs the size of baby crocodiles so I am generally a bit jumpy about planting out slug food. This does not, however, appear to be the main problem. The main problem appears to be that my border is neatly situated in the middle of an extended game of volleyball between my children and the kids next door.

For normal domestic goddess behaviour on my part a bit of warning of such antics is required. Didn’t get it. Rocketed out of the kitchen door shrieking “For the love of CHRIST! What are you doing to my PLANTS!!” Pause. Deep breath. Very calm. “It looks like a lovely game darling. Now, could you please be a little bit careful and not squash this, and this, and this...”. Resilient things, plants.

On page 7ish of the Garden Media Guild newsletter there is a picture of Joe Swift, Cleve West and James Alexander Sinclair doing their Three Men Went to Mow thing. A trio of fine fellows engaged in jolly japes. And a picture crying out for a caption competition, methinks (something political, like off Have I Got News For You, maybe).

On the subject of mowing, or not, the picture is of dandelions and if you have lots they make quite a nice wine – if you like that sort of thing and you are about 12. When we made it I was about 15 and being clearly more sophisticated than my sibs I preferred the damson version. Still an alcoholic syrup, but one with a bit more body to it.

All eyes on Chelsea Flower Show. Will it or won’t it? Flower, that is. My money is that every show-related greenhouse in the land has its heating turned up nice and high and all will be fine!
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Metamorphosis

Writing a book is often likened to having a baby. And with some justification. There is the giddy conception and whirlwind of excitement, then the warm glow of a contract signed. It then the process starts to lag and become heavier; sweetmeats are deployed to maintain performance – pregnancy, like literature, is an endurance sport. My new book, Published by Green Books, 22nd September  2016 Finally, fat and fecund with promise the manuscript is delivered to the publisher, for supervision and medical intervention if necessary. And, finally, the screaming and anguish suddenly stops. The Author's desk (the buns have already been eaten) And here is where the process differs. After months of to-ing and fro-ing, deliberations about nuanced argument and tone of voice, followed by concerns about stacking words in a column and balanced captions, it is confiscated. They just take it away. To put it another way, it is like watching caterpillars. They eat and eat and eat and ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Adventures in Floristry

Ingredients for a bouquet Back in the summer I went on a floristry course to Green and Gorgeous in Oxfordshire. Historically, I have not been at all keen on formal floristry. It seemed rigid and stuffy, coming up with arrangements that had names like ‘Orchid and Sphagnum on a Tortured Twig’. But at G&G they laid my demons to rest with an intensive day learning how to make fashionable naturalistic bouquets. Since then I have had little need to use these dark arts, but as the autumn colours intensified the floristry bug intensified too. Venturing out with the secateurs I acquired Pyracantha berries, bronze and gold forsythia leaves, soft grey goldenrod seedheads (cunningly stabilised with a blast of extreme-hold hairspray to stop the seeds dropping off), and some Sedum flowers. I bought some Physalis and cellophane from Lulu Flowers round the corner – where they also gave me a quick refresher in wrapping them for travel. So, with much garden wire and raffia, I assemb...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Essential Apocalypse Skillset

Let me tell you a story. Several years ago, I was painting the bathroom of a house in Bristol. The window was open and it was a pleasant sort of day and people were wandering past. Around about four o’clock I heard a couple of sets of feet come down the hill and then stop. “Look, cherries!” said one voice (female, mid to late teens). “No, I don’t think they are. They can’t be.” Said the other, doubtfully (ditto). “Well, they look like cherries. Let’s try them!” “No, they are probably berries. Completely different. Some of them are not red, they are blackish. They are probably poisonous.” “Oh. Yes, I suppose so.” (disappointed) The feet moved on. I looked out of the bathroom window at the large and heavily laden cherry tree leaning over the wall of the garden opposite and wondered what the world was coming to. Red Sky in the Morning, Shepherds Warning ((c) N Slade) I am actually still wondering. When my grandfather was a child, he and his brothers (and a dog) ...
7 comments
Read more