Shame about Marilyn Monroe

Not much time for gardening as I have to chauffeur Mike around to various appointments – haircut, physio, shopping. (I understand that he wants to have some involvement in food purchasing and of course it’s not his fault that it takes him a while to get around, but, man, it does make the shopping take a long time.) Still, I do find time to squeeze in a visit to my new favourite vendor: the garden shop.

The only down side to my beautiful Blueberry Hill rose bush is that the bed now looks completely unbalanced. Really, there is nothing for it but to buy another rose bush to plant at the other end. This gardening lark is getting expensive. If I’m not careful (and apparently I’m not) I’m going to have to get a job (heaven forefend) just to pay for it.


Try to find a nice pale yellow rose bush (yellow roses being a personal favourite), but no luck. The only yellow rose bushes they have are quite a vibrant yellow called, for some inexplicable reason, Marilyn Monroe. This would almost be an acceptable alternative, but all the Marilyn Monroes have spotted leaves and I’m figuring there is no point in handicapping myself unnecessarily. Opt for a pale coral rose bush. Lots of blooms soon to appear and, more importantly, lots of new growth showing.



While at the garden shop, triggered by Rowan-inspired guilt about how far behind I am on the veg front, in a moment of sheer folly I also buy packets of seeds for rocket, lettuce, beets, carrots, peas and even some cantaloupe.

What am I thinking? Not only is the imaginary vegetable patch still imaginary (a big enough obstacle to growing these imaginary vegetables), but, as previously stated, I’m about to go away for a week, so what the hell is the point in trying to start sprouting seeds in pots?

Pick Mike up from his physio appointment and make my way to the garden to dig a hole for my new rose bush. Roots, roots, bloody roots. Well, at least they’re not rocks (this area having once upon a time been properly dug over by me). While I’m digging the hole I note with great satisfaction that bees are buzzing around the ceanothus and the other rose. Get the new rose bush in and the hose out to soak the area. Water the other plants, thinking as I do so, that I really need to get my shit together to do the watering in the morning, when there is no sun in the garden, rather than late afternoon when the sun is broiling down everywhere.

Go inside for a cold drink, come back out, sit on dilapidated bench, light a fag and survey my domain. Really, I think, it would be nice to get some lobelia and other bedding plants in the bed with the roses and unintentionally dwarf lilac.


I am hoping the poor unintentionally dwarf lilac will eventually produce as much bloom as the genuinely dwarf lilac which I bought for the garden in Walthamstow and which now resides in my friend Irmani’s garden in Camden (see above – looking great, by the way, Irmani!), along with my monster rosemary and, I seem to recall, at least one of my potted rose bushes.

Anyway, sitting there thinking it might be nice to plant some flowers, I begin to wonder, somewhat belatedly you might think, what exactly I want out of this garden.

Do I want, like Rowan, to maximise my independence from the evil agri-business industry (uh, oh, just typing those words has me looking for a soap box, but I will resist a rant about why the hell there are green beans from Kenya in UK supermarkets year round while Kenyans watch their water table sink further and further)? Do I want the satisfaction of consuming my very own vegetables, which, given the reasonably temperate climate on Gabriola, I could do year round? Or do I want somewhere pretty to sit, listening to bees buzz and reading a good book?

Hmm. That is a bit of a poser. The latter option does sound fairly attractive and, let’s face it, would be much less time consuming.

No, no, no, I must resist this evil temptation to throw in the horticultural towel before I’ve really begun.

Go back into the house and ring Kelly. Yes! She can bring her rototiller around on Friday, show me how to use it. (Must remember to ask her to take a photo of me tilling the soil, else the sceptics amongst my readers might suspect that I snuck the errant Billy in to do the job for me.)

Okay, the timing could be better. I wonder how many weeds will take root in the week I’m in Vancouver. But at least I will know they are weeds so can pull straight away. I could actually pot some seeds for Pat to water along with the rest of the garden. Some might even sprout while I’m away.

Of course, I still won’t have any planks (for the building of raised beds) or topsoil. So, still a little ass backwards, but how is that new in this project?

As I find myself wishing the compost in the compost box was ready to roll (as I could use this to improve the quality of my soil and perhaps proceed without having to source and pay for a pile of top soil), I also find myself missing my three-tier worm composter from Walthamstow (also now residing in Camden). Oh, lovely worms, not only do you produce grade A compost in the bottom tray by the time the top tray is full, but you also produce lots of lovely liquid fertiliser which would come in very handy right now for the tomato plants (so much better than resorting to Miracle Gro, which Pat suggests.)


Do an internet search and discover that I could actually get a replacement three tray wormery for a mere $99.95. (Who do they think they are kidding with these prices? Why don’t they just charge an even $100? Not that the price would actually be $100 in this country with its stupid sales tax system which means, unlike unobtrusive VAT, everything costs a lot more than claimed on the price tag. Why can’t they just tell you how much the bloody thing costs? I blame Alberta. Oops, here comes a tar sands rant. Better rein it in.) Too late for the worms to produce their magic this year, but surely worth the investment? Pat, with his compost pile out in the open in the corner of his garden, would, I’m sure, shake his head, but I do love my worms.

Will have to sleep on this.