I love flowers and fruit and vegetables. I love walking through beautiful gardens – and sitting down and admiring them, but, as Kipling said
“Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing - 'Oh how beautiful!' and sitting in the shade!”
How I struggle to get things to grow reliably – I try every year, and well meaning, generous friends give me tomato plants, and chrysanthemums in pots, and other such things “which will grow themselves, Angela” – but despite my regular watering, and gentle words of encouragement, I am singularly unsuccessful. I have some rosemary, thyme and chives which are thriving – but that’s about it for edible goodies. Even all the baby figlets have recently dropped off the tree [Curse You, Fig Tree!] even though the leaves are flourishing.
I brought him into the kitchen. “Whatever’s that?” enquired Bob.
I could tell Bob wasn’t over impressed. “I am sure I have seen them on Bargain Hunt” I went on. “One day it may be worth a fortune!”
So I have planted up my little dog, and he has been staring at me from the kitchen windowsill. Just about enough to garnish a salad or sprinkle on a sandwich. No wonder he is looking so suspicious – in his youth he held primroses or carnations.
I think his dignity is affronted. But at least I have grown something!