Pinks (oeillet d'Inde)
Did you know they’re called pinks because they’re frilly,
not because they’re pink? I didn't.
The garden is still a mess but I see there is life poking
out here and there. I’m digging up
weeds today when I should be editing my latest detective novel. It’s as though there are two of me, and the
one who likes to be outside wearing gardening gloves and standing in mud is generally the winner.
I do keep popping back to the laptop, not to check a
spelling or deliberate over a comma, but to follow the progress of my youngest
son who is sitting on a plane waiting to be taken to Singapore. He was supposed to be travelling with a
friend, but there’s been some mix up over passports and so he’s on his own for
the time being.
Still waiting on the runway.
Back in the garden, I inspect the new plants I purchased in
Saintes – the most beautiful French town, and on my doorstep – on Monday. A man pitched up with his wares, a real French raconteur. His prices were irresistible and so I loaded my bags, eventually managed to pay, laughed at his 'I love you' routine and promised to marry him when I left my husband - all in the name of getting a bargain and being pleasant, you understand. Anyway, I’d put my purchases out in the fresh air and
watched from my back door as rain bucketed down, suddenly turning to hail, thrashing anything
that moved, including next door’s cat who’d been bird watching with his evil
twitching tail. I was glad he got his
comeuppance. Now, there’s bright
sunshine and my plants seem fine. I
think I’ll dig in three pinks under my kitchen window, some primroses by the
back door and leave the others where I can view them as I stand at the sink
(daydreaming and scheming, not washing up).
I wander round the garden eyeing up last year’s successes
and failures. I’m a serial mover of
plants. They don’t get much peace in my
garden. But most of them survive and
some flourish. Like my Mexican Orange
bush, which is taking over a little too raucously. I’ve cut it back and moved a rose that was being stifled, but big
is big – nothing can make it downsize really.
What I need is a larger garden.
Must tell my husband. He wants
to treble the size of his garage for his motorbikes – the ones he has and the
ones he wants to have.
I’m inside again, reading about pinks. They need coarse sand, it says. I don’t have any about the place and can’t
think of an alternative, apart from skimming the impasse for some chalky
pebbles. I have a bucket and a rake,
but do I dare? My neighbour, who owns the land to the front of my house, has a big
white van and thinks very little of running over my hollyhocks if
provoked. Perhaps I’d better go to the
garden centre and buy an inadequate and overpriced bag of grit and be done with
it.
Update: Alfie is eating his way around Singapore, and I’ve
visited two garden centres whose staff knows nothing of coarse sand for
planting (‘...pas en France, Madame!’).
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| Not sure I'd like an Indian pancake for breakfast... |
