Imagine you grew some plants and nurtured them carefully, watering, pinching out, potting on, feeding. They were in lovely pots. There were flower buds and then flowers. Beautiful petals, opening carefully and slowly in the sun. You watered them some more. Every day. And fed them. The plants grew and the petals were all exquisite and there was fragrance and beauty and loveliness and all of the hard work was worth it AND THEN SOME BOYS CAME ALONG AND BOUNCED A FOOTBALL ON THE TOP OF THEM ALL AND THEN HIT THEM A FEW TIMES WITH A TENNIS RACKET AND KNOCKED THE POTS ABOUT A BIT WITH SCOOTERS. That is what my garden is like. I had a moment of going postal the other day, but sadly it has changed nothing. The plants are sad and flat. The urchins are ghastly. The dog is a beast. But this is how it is all meant to be, no? Everyone bursting with energy, fun to be had, outdoors all the time, happy, happy, happy. Me and my plants will try not to get in the way.
When things go quiet out there the butterflies return. There seem to be lots this year. They find a few blooms still standing. The marjoram is always popular with the pollinators, and so easy to grow. I just chop it back once a year. Couldn't be simpler. Low maintenance, lovely for the kitchen, adored by bees and butterflies. Every garden should have one.
School finishes tomorrow and I am bracing myself. It promises to be a humdinger of a summer. I shall try not to be too shouty about all the mess and the breakages. I think that when the children look back, these warm summer days are the ones they will remember. Hot, dusty afternoons playing in woods and by streams, ice cubes and fresh fruit, racing round on bikes and scooters, making dens and building things from wood, meals eaten late, endless sweaty evenings with midges and hazy pink light. That's how childhood should be remembered I think. And hopefully not too much of mother going beserk because someone trashed her fushia. I am a work in progress my friends, wish me luck.
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