Last winter, during a clear out of the shed, I unearthed a big bag of peat moss which I have no recollection of buying and which must have been buried in there for 10 years. Of course, I now know that buying peat moss is bad, so I won’t be doing it again. But the bag’s already there and digging it into the vegetable patch (along with large container of now compost) should help the soil. Not a job for today.
First things first. Sadly, the somewhat bedraggled fuchsias I bought last summer to plant in a pot and mark crazy Clancy’s shallow grave did not make it through the winter.
Something a bit hardier was required. I know from Walthamstow garden that roses (along with a surprising number of other things) can thrive quite well in containers.
So, last week Irmani and I went to the local nursery where I purchased what will be a vibrantly red rose bush.
Oh, and look – I found a pot for it that goes perfectly with the bench!
Serendipitous or what?
Of course, I was quite sad that the fuchsias didn’t make it. Irmani was also sad for me, not least because she is still enjoying the seemingly indestructible fuchsia she inherited from me when I left London last year.
When she heard me making undoubtedly pathetic whimpering noises over a beautiful hanging basket of the same purple and pink fuchsias (which I was again telling myself I could not afford), she very graciously pointed out that I didn’t get a birthday present from her last year and bought it for me.
Have I mentioned what a star she is? Yes, I believe I have.
Well, the fuchsia’s lovely for me to look at as I’m coming into the house, but what about Irmani and other future guests over the summer. Shouldn’t she (and they) have something nice to look at coming and going from the guest suite? Of course she (and they) should. Oh, look, the village market has some reduced to half price (which I can actually afford).
Hanging baskets front and back. Hurrah!
Getting there.
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