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On Wings of Sculpted Treacle

Tue, 9 Feb 2010 12:10:17 +0000

Last week I went to London for the launch of this year’s National Garden Scheme and to mark the publication of this year’s Yellow Book which was held on the South Bank.
I had rather forgotten how nice the Festival Hall is.... actually, that is a slight fib, I had never realised how nice the Festival Hall is because I haven’t set foot in there since I was ten and was taken on a choir outing from school to listen to the Vienna Boys Choir (i). These were a group of boys from (as the name suggests) Vienna who dressed in sailor suits and sang sweetly. I am not sure whether that sort of thing is allowed any longer. I remember being far more interested in the chance of an interval ice cream than the angel faced Austrians. Although I was, at that time, leader of the school choir and - as you can see from this picture - no slouch in the angel-face stakes (ii).
Anyway it was all very jolly with very superior cupcakes and chocolate chip cookies, a sparky speech from the President (aka Joe Swift) and a lot of pretty pictures (of the sort that make Ann Wareham spit feathers). They then dished out a pretty phenomenal load of money. £550,000 to Macmillan Nurses, the same again to Marie Curie, £450,000 to Help the Hospices and £350,000 to Crossroads Care. That is pretty good going just from people opening their gardens and flogging cake. There were also many fine and lovely people in attendance. I won’t dwell as you have probably read about it already as reported by Victoria, Ann-Marie and (a bit sarkily) by Matthew Appleby.
There was then a fair bit of loafing about eating sandwiches before our evening entertainment could commence. Ann-Marie and I were going off to the ThinkinGardens dinner (in collaboration with the London College of Garden Design - whose pleasingly leather trousered director Andrew Wilson was in attendance) at a rather fine and old fashioned restaurant in Soho. In the chair was Christopher Young (the debonair deputy editor of the Garden) and the subject was “Are Gardens an untapped creative reserve”. It must be said that a fair bit of nonsense was talked (some of it by me) and I never fully understood the subject - I was hoping it would have some relevance to wildlife reserves and we might look at cute pictures of Penguins but was told by the chairman (quite rightly) that I was just being silly. But it did have the advantage of being quite interesting and jolly nonsense so that was okay. Also present were Dawn (Little Green Fingers), Charles Hawes (AW’s (ii) other ‘arf), Jonathan Garratt (potter), Tony Heywood (conceptualist), Joan Edlis (artist), Adam Frost (gardener), Jill Billington (gardener) and Lizzie Taylor (gardener) was also present. Sadly I cannot remember many conclusions being drawn but, fear not, there will be a full report (written by Anne) appearing at some point on the ThinkinGardens website.
We also found time (once Joe had stopped being Presidential to nip outside and make a new episode of Three Men Went To Mow: this time on the subject of Valentine’s Day which is not very garden based but lurrve does make the world a better place...

I am strangely fascinated by this. More specifically by the idea that, in Australia, there is such a thing as a ‘Dress Singlet’: as opposed to an everyday singlet. I wonder how that is possible. I would have thought that the best way to dress up a singlet would be to cover more flesh: it would then rapidly become a shirt. On the subject of singlets/vests I was quite badly traumatised by the Antiques Roadshow the other day. It is not a programme that I often watch but caught five minutes which featured a very unattractive fellow wearing a vest and carrying a dog in a bag. Would never have happened in Arthur Negus’s day.
The picture is of grass and camassias.
This time last year I was driving around all over the place and being intimidated by air freshening products.
I am listening to She’s Crazy For Leaving by Rodney Crowell
(i) There you, see, honesty in almost all things is the best policy: I could have pretended that I spend ages listening to sonatas and nocturnes - always with a copy of the score - and hobnobbing with the greats of Classical music but I’m afraid that I don’t. The Monkees is more my level.)
(ii) It must be said that I am sporting an expression that, while angelic on the surface, is a bit Lord of the Flies.
(iii) I hasten to add that AW in this case is Anne Wareham and not Andrew Wilson

Every Thursday She Rolled In Feathers

Tue, 2 Feb 2010 11:11:53 +0000

Until last week I had not realised how very complicated it was to choose spectacles.
One wanders into the Opticians and is faced by walls covered in different frames. Black ones, gold ones, red ones, glittery ones, half moons, different designers, different shapes, different lenses, different sizes and some quite vast prices. I mooched about, and my first mistake was to start trying on glasses from the women’s section. I could see the array of efficient assistants raising their eyebrows and shaking their heads with a mixture of disbelief, sympathy and the slightly constipating look of somebody fighting back a burning desire to giggle and point. I have seen the same look on the faces of some garden contractors after I have suggested something slightly outrageous.
Having been redirected to the butch side of the shop I started again but quickly became befuddled again: I am not very good at this sort of thing (I am also pretty crap at buying most clothes and get very flustered in Tescos).
Some frames were free with the lenses but sadly they were all hideous: one pair was like Sarah Palin’s but flesh coloured: I tried them on but even I realised that this was not a good look. I found they whole thing so bewildering I had to get my wife and reason prevailed. I then wrote out a very large cheque and now have to wait a couple of weeks before delivery. I better not lose the bloody things.
Other interesting events of the week:(i)
I have planted a garden in Bromsgrove: although when I say ‘planted’ in these circumstances certain people (who should remain nameless but whose blogs rhyme with Snotter, Pambling, Caishent and Jingers - with a hard ‘G’) tend to cast doubt upon my ability to dig holes. I am both capable and willing to dig on occasions: it is however more efficient for the client to have somebody younger and more strapping to do such things while I impart the benefit of my experience. It also means that I have time to explore the available biscuit selection and lean languidly against any available AGA. After all I estimate that,if you add up all the holes I have dug in my life it would equate to a middle sized open-cast mine so it is not as if I haven’t done my share. And you can’t trust AGA leaning to a callow youth.
I have been to Malvern to talk to the divine Nina (who was modelling a new and very fetching hat) about all the interesting stuff that we are planning for the Spring Show. It better be good as VPs Malvern Meet bloggers convention seems to gaining ground and I have no wish to be pelted with old fruit. Currently the showground looks like this: remember that when you all turn up in May. If you write a blog or Tweet or anything like that (I don’t really understand Facebook as I have been banned from it by my children and, anyway, the last thing I need is another distraction) then please attend: register your interest with the highly efficient VP.

I have been to London for a most exclusive and entertaining dinner. It was organised by the inestimable Ann-Marie Powell and consisted of many of the great and good in the world of gardening. I would give you a full guest list but the behaviour was so outrageous that it would shatter too many illusions. I can report, however, the Cleve West and I left earlier than the others and were tucked up with a nice mug of Horlicks by 2.00AM (not together on this occasion). Matthew Wilson didn’t make it and instead spent the time smeared with baby vomit: some people know how to live it up, bigstyle.
The venue was a very luxurious club/hotel/restaurant in the West End that seemed to be a resting place for a lot of very young Eastern European women wearing skirts that barely covered the imagination. There was also a crystal studded bottle of vodka( RRP £6,000) that had it’s own revolving turntable and spotlight (it shared this podium with a can of Red Bull which rather let the side down). There was also a pole on the dance floor and a number of faked oil portraits of diaphanously draped couples. I may be wrong but it seemed that this was perhaps not a place where one’s maiden aunt would feel most at home.(ii)
I have a few casual observations to make following my train journey. Firstly, why do people get up and stand in the central aisle of the train five minutes before it actually arrives at the destination? they also do it in aeroplanes waiting for the doors to open. Why would anybody choose to stand in a cramped gangway? Maybe everybody is in much more of a hurry than I am.
Secondly if you are middle-aged, white , short and a bit porky then don’t try to execute complicated handshakes: it confuses the other participants and makes you look more like Fred West than Kanye West.
Thirdly. people actually eat at Garfunkels. I thought it was a joke restaurant but the branch at Oxford Circus was teeming.
Lastly, Mickey Dolenz (drummer of the Monkees and writer of one of their lesser known, but bravely titled, songs ‘Randy Scouse Git’) will be starring in Hairspray. He also sang lead on I’m a Believer - although he

seems to find it tricky to drum and sing at the same time. (iii) He was the one with the shaggy pageboy hairstyle as opposed to the little British one (Jones), the one in the wooly hat (iv) (Nesmith) or the blonde slightly gormless one (Peter Tork) (v) I am very fond of the Monkees as the epitome of unpretentious pop songery.
However, I am listening not to one of their works, but to ‘Aint No Thang by Katzenjammer
The picture is very unseasonal Cornflower.
This time last year I did a rundown of non gardening Blogs. Sadly one has died and I have rather gone off The Sartorialist but the others stand (although the Irrelevant Cheetah is a bit slack in his postings) and I would add Mr Uku (very sound fellow regarding Biscuits) and Letters of Note in their stead.
The year before I was pondering on the scary portraits of past Mayors while doing Pilates.

(i) The use of the word interesting in this context may not be 100% accurate.

(i) Do people still have maiden aunts? I reckon that they are probably very rare nowadays and should be applauded wherever they go. Likewise are there still people who wear Lisle stockings? I ask partly out of self interest as I am frequently cold in my office through lack of both efficient heating and sufficient activity and am wondering why there are no tights for men and thought that a pair of lisle stocking might do the trick.

(i) Some people like to know these things.

(i) I always thought that the wooly hat must have been frightfully uncomfortable in the heat of California.

(i) He may have looked gormless but he slept with Janis Joplin twice. Whether she was aware of this at the time is unknown.

The Orthodontist Never Wore Suede

Wed, 27 Jan 2010 14:09:47 +0000

Momentous event of the week was my stepping firmly into the world of 21st Century design by beginning to learn Vectorworks. It was quite spontaneous: a bit of paper fell out of the Garden Design Journal, I rang the number and less than a week later I had written a large cheque and found myself sitting in a conference room at a golf course near Junction 13 of the M4. There were biscuits and jolly people and the excellent Tamsin Slatter. My only niggle is that lunch was chips and sandwiches which seemed quite a weird (though not unpleasant) combination. So now I’ve started and think it might change my life.... when I understand what the hell I am doing.
I am also planting a very large hedge using some fabulous 3m high yews from Readyhedge: they are very, very heavy but fortunately I do not have to lift the darned things. It is always a worry planting such big and hideously expensive things but hopefully we have got the right balance of drainage and irrigation.
Now pay attention:
The indefatigable VP (along with Helen from the Patient Gardener) has put her considerable energies into organising a Bloggers get together at this year’s Malvern Spring Show (May 6th-9th). She has set up a new blog here and has also appeared on Twitter. The exact plan is still under review but hopefully quite a few of you will get there: I am there, as usual on every day but the exciting news (if you are easily influenced) is that Joe Swift and Cleve West are also there on Friday and Saturday so we will be doing the first ever Three Men Went To Mow - Live. Again we are unsure what we will do but it should be jolly. On Sunday, Joe and I will be Cleveless. For those of keener on gazing upon the perfectly formed torso of Chris Beardshaw he will be in attendance on the Thursday. Also available will be the effervescent Katie Johnson to keep us in order and the ever knowledgeable Reg Moule to answer those horticultural questions that leave us stumped.
There will be Acrobats as well. Previous posts about this fantastic show are legion: if bored try here, here, here, here, here, here or here (and a number of points in between).
In a comment on my last post young Mr Ben from Ben’s Garden (which, incidentally, is one of the finest Blogs that I have discovered recently: if you have not yet had carnal knowledge with said Blog then I urge you to do so forthwith) has disputed the boringness of some of my pictures. He suggests that this site will provide duller alternatives.
He has a point.
However, I did start taking pictures in Dull Places quite a while ago and, indeed, set up a Flickr group called Pictures Taken While Waiting In Boring Places.
Sadly, I have been very neglectful of my creation for a couple of years although I notice that it has picked up a lot of new pictures and a number of members while I wasn’t looking. I should have been more attentive as a few pictures have snuck in that are way outside the established criteria. The idea was that they should be good pictures taken of very dull places of mass transit. I must start again
I have been caricatured by a clever fellow called James Lazzari who I encountered on Twitter: it is much politer than I feared!

I have also been the subject of a very flattering post on Fennel and Fern featuring various pretty pictures of some of my gardens.
Over the last couple of weeks weird things have been happening in the Saturday Times. They have produced an extraordinarily dull collection of wall posters. One combined “What People Have For Breakfast” and “Things To Have On Toast”. I am a little confused as to who on earth would put these things on their walls: I was also rather disappointed by the quality of the Breakfasts: there was plenty of porridge, some toast and the occasional daring egg but that’s about it: whatever happened to the great breakfasts of yesteryear? Where are the guineafowl, rare steaks, sturgeon cheeks, wrens and exotic offal? Why does nobody eat warm guavas, shredded breadfruit or even those high sugar, artificially coloured cereals ?
It’s all about roughage these days and that is never glamorous. Their second offering was “Famous Italians Twinned With Various Italian Phrases” and “Things To Have On Pasta”. I wait with bated breath for this week’s issue: perhaps “Ingenious Ways To Fill Four Pages With Utter Tosh” would be appropriate.
That’s probably enough for the moment. I am listening to Coming To Pieces by Schuman the Human.
The picture is of Geums, Ligusticum and Geranium Bill Wallis.

Signor Bruschetta and The Brutal Hordes

Tue, 19 Jan 2010 15:18:19 +0000

I have just returned from looking at a new job. It is all very exciting except for the fact that it seems to house the national collection of Leylandii. There are vast hedges of the things, stands of specimen Leylandii, teenage Leylandii lurking around corners and, in amongst the woods, young leylandii preparing to assert themselves upon the world.
It is as if the previous owner only had one plant in his repertoire and whenever a gap appeared, “bosh”, another Leylandii was planted. There is also a great deal of rubble, some deserted sheds and some very high ladders stretching up into the trees - I presume they were used as deer shooting hides. I climbed one (because I find it difficult to resist very high things) but disappointingly the view was mostly of Leylandii.
I look forward to many hours of gleeful destruction.
I am quite pleased to see the back of the snow: it was strangely enervating. All very pretty and my mind said “Oh whoopee I can get lots of stuff done in the office” but actually I achieved very little apart from too much Tweeting, too much looking at interesting but not terribly useful stuff on the internet and not enough writing outlines of possible books or drawing.
I did, however, manage to throw away a lot of digital pictures. One of the delights of digital cameras is that one can take hundreds of pictures of potential gardens which can be invaluable when one is trying to work out whether a particular tree is worth keeping (i) or what can be seen from the bathroom windows.
But, one of the problems with digital cameras is also that one can take hundreds of pictures that then just clutter up the place and after a while, they are pretty useless. I also take a lot of plant pictures many of which are a bit Peter Andre (ii). I have slung hundreds of them and labelled many others so if, at some point, I am actually looking for a particular plant it should be easy to find. Here is a small selection of really very dull pictures:

They do, I hasten to add get slightly better over time...

Some of my more cynical readers from the edible side will be surprised to notice a quite spiffy little vegetable garden in the bottom right hand corner. (I also put that in for the benefit of Anna - Flowergardengirl - who was talking about Potagers yesterday).
I spent a long time this week in the newsagents looking for a copy of the excellent (oil,oil) English Garden Magazine (iii) but never found it: the main reason for this was a completely chaotic bit of organisation. It was shocking. Magazines dealing with Shooting and other hearty country pursuits snuggling up next to magazines about Hairdressing and Cross Stitch. Current affairs next to Model Railways. Sudokus next to Jamie Oliver’s Soup Recipes. As a result the only garden magazine I found was Garden News which was all mixed up with Carp Weekly. Although you wouldn’t know it if you happened to wander into my office/shed/car I quite admire a bit of order (hence my satisfaction working in a supermarket). I started restacking them in subject order but then I sensed that I was being given odd looks by the people behind the till so I stopped. I bet the Village powerhouse that is Dawn from Little Green Fingers wouldn’t allow that sort of slackness in her village shop.
May I draw your attention to GardenersClick? It is a website stuffed with useful things written by the perfectly formed Chris Beardshaw and the perfectly Welsh Terry Walton. Amongst all this wisdom is an interview with me which tends to lower the tone somewhat. You can find it here.
I am currently listening to The Answer To Everything by Nancy Sinatra. The picture is of a scrambly herbaceous Clematis whose name I have forgotten. Nigel Colborn probably knows.
Two years ago I was excited about a cascade of plastic balls rolling down the Spanish Steps into the Piazza di Spagna in Rome.
Last year, oddly, I was also talking about Leylandii and it was the birth of the great concept/excuse to arse about that is Three Men Went To Mow.
(i) or, indeed, what it is. The excellent chap who does surveys for me is not that good on dendrology: things are labelled “Bush” or, sometimes, “Oak” or “Ash” or “Conifer”. Even when they aren’t.
(i) Peter Andre = Quite Good Looking But Also Pretty Dim
(ii) A magazine that this month carries write ups of two Scottish Island gardens in which I have dabbled as well as a full page portrait of Mr Sex Vegetable, Mark Diacono wearing a casually knotted sock around his neck and cupping some fine Quinces.

The Boy From Sea Lion

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 15:32:40 +0000

I am a bit bored of snow now: I have marvelled at is prettiness, been amused by its coldness and enjoyed its snowballiness but now I think it has rather outstayed its welcome. It has become like the dull person in the corner who has drunk too much and whose stories have lost their wit and are now just tedious. I would like a swift thaw so we can all get on with other things. I have two jolly jobs which I cannot even go and see because every distinguishing feature is lying muffled beneath the snow.
Still at least we don’t live in Canada where they have feet of the bloody stuff for months on end. Must be really dispiriting. Probably worse if you’re a Penguin - although the advantage is that, I believe, that below a certain temperature things cease to smell. Penguins in zoos over here smell really, really fishy: presumably when they are all shuffling about in one of those frozen huddles then it would be pretty unbearable without the deodorising qualities of snow and sub zero temperatures. Anyway here are some snowy pictures: I know you are all sick of such things by now but tough...

I went to Falmouth on Saturday to return my daughter to University. It is a long drive. While there I visited two supermarkets (both of which, incidentally, were particularly hellish) and indulged in one of my favourite activities which is to closely examine the contents of other people’s shopping baskets.
Why does that person need four bottles of HP Sauce?
Aah, they must be having a party (albeit a distinctly unglamorous one) because their trolley contains fourteen loaves of sliced white bread.
Eughh, those extra budget cocktail sausages look revolting - I wonder what part of the pig goes into them?.
How very healthy, lots of fresh fruit and vegetables but then they go and spoil it all by adding 4lbs of chocolate.
Who exactly buys Maggi’s sauce: (I remember Maggi also made dried soup and stock cubes which could be found in German supermarkets when I was a child).
Ferrero Rocher: so much promise so little satisfaction.
Surely those people are too fat already: they shouldn’t be buying aerosol cream and pork pies.
Hours of harmless amusement.(i)
I then lost my car in the car park which was annoying and rather foolish: I wandered around for about ten minutes pressing the automatic door unlocker until I found it somewhere completely unexpected.
Quite soon this blog will register it’s 50,000th hit. I think it might have had more but I lost some of them. It would be jolly to mark this momentous occasion by setting up an Endowment in the name of the 50,000th visitor. Or perhaps naming a yacht in their honour. Or a racehorse. But perhaps that would be unnecessarily ostentatious so I will think of something suitable yet dignified. If you cast an eye into the lower left hand corner of the homepage you will see a counter: if it says 50,003 then you are the lucky winner (one doesn’t want to be too predictable): contact me and the just rewards of the fortunate will be showered upon your head.
I am listening to Swing Out Sister singing You On My Mind (not their their finest hour). The picture is of a Tulbaghia which, though not very seasonal, is at least not white.
This week in 2007 I took you all on a train journey to North Wales.
(i) I worked in a supermarket many years ago and rather enjoyed it: especially shelf-stacking. There is something very satisfying about perfectly aligned rows of beans and bottled beetroot. Jars of silverskin pickled onions and boxes of washing powder in serried ranks. In particular packets of cigarettes which stack as beautifully as wooden building bricks. I wore a grey overall coat and was almost always on time: it was one of my more successful jobs. If I’d stuck with it I might have been manager of a vast Tesco somewhere.

She was never knowingly underglazed

Mon, 4 Jan 2010 12:30:28 +0000

Well, that’s that then...
A Happy New Year to all and I trust that your assorted festivities were all terribly jolly.
I have barely been in my office since Christmas Eve. I have commented on no blogs and earned not one single penny. Bliss: but I guess the time has now come to shrug back into harness and, obviously, writing a long and drivelly blogpost is the best way to avoid doing anything constructive.
I have been swept along on a rip tide of knitwear. It is one of the perks of hitting fifty. Presents that, in one’s youth, caused the pit of your stomach to lurch and a forced grin of ersatz thankfulness to bisect your face are now very welcome. I remember receiving two wool mix sweaters in the mid -eighties (both were patterned and the mix in question was about 20% sheep and 80% Brentford’s finest nylon) when all I really wanted was a cheque. More than wanted: I desperately needed a cheque as I knew that soon I would have to leave the loving bosom of my family to return to London where I had no food, no money and no job. This situation was made more complicated by the fact that I had told the loving bosom of the aforementioned family that I was okay in all three areas. I can’t remember how things panned out but the fact that I am still around means that I did not starve to death.
Anyway, the point is that now I welcome all manner of woolen goods: scarves, hats, sweaters, gloves and socks. Bring them on. Although I draw the line at balaclavas for the moment. Just a bit too pervy.
This is a brief summing up of my activities over the past fortnight:
Plant and garden based activities over Christmas: nil
Non garden activities: I have been beaten at pool, racing demon, tennis and Scrabble, triumphed at Cranium and narrowly lost at Pictionary. I have, obviously, eaten more than I should and as a result feel a tiddly bit doughy: in spite of much hearty walking.
Useful objectives achieved: I have combed through various old suits etc looking for moths and as a result have had to burn one pair or plus-fours and a very ancient (made in 1941 judging by the tailor’s label) pair of tweed trousers. I will miss them even though I did not wear them often enough. The plus fours made interesting gardening apparel: I wore them a fair bit when I used to build gardens in London. I also wore a kilt on occasions but never when I had to climb ladders. I still wear the kilt a couple of times a year as proved by this picture taken yesterday: those are not stunt knees and, yes, it was dashed parky with the wind blowing up me sporran. The kilt itself belonged to my great-grandfather so is about 120 years old. I have removed my head from this picture as I look even worse than I did in my passport pictures before Christmas: although Madam Sock must be congratulated for her improvements.
We have scoured the attic and chucked away copious quantities of junk. Also , for nature lovers out there, I caught a shrew in a mouse trap in the attic. If anybody has any idea how it got there I would be very interested to know.
Things I have learnt over the festive period:
Watching Angels and Demons is a bad thing: it has to be the most annoying tosh upon which anybody has ever spent millions of dollars. Every single moment spent watching it is a wasted moment: take it from me, I am an expert moment waster. Must be, I have been writing this blog for four years. I used to like Tom Hanks, be mildly besotted with Euan Macgregor and had forgiven Ron Howard for playing Richie in Happy Days. But now, after two hours and thirteen minutes of such errant nonsense I am not so sure.I might even volunteer to join the posse if the purpose was to hunt any of them down.
Never eat Bacon flavoured chewing gum. I don’t know whose idea that was but if I ever find out and my Dan Brown hunting posse has a spare moment then he is next on the list.
Christmas pudding is best cold - did I mention that last year? I did and Mark disagreed and demanded custard. Typical.
New Year’s Eve is an appalling con: the midnight moment is best spent asleep. (I’m pretty sure I have covered this before as well.)
I was going to do some sort of wise retrospective on 2009 but as I seem to have written rather a lot already I think I might spare you that experience. Instead here is a run down of the last four New Year entries on this blog. They are depressingly similar in vein.
Roughly four years ago I began this Blog.
Three years ago I wrote about tidying.
Two years ago I treated you to a singalong version of the Bonanza theme.
Last year I upset somebody by being a bit rude about the idea of Sustainability. There were comments but again for some reason only I can see the darned things.
The picture is of the moon among some Scots Pines: taken this morning as the sun slowly rose. I am listening to Dry and Dusty by Fever Ray: which was kindly given to me by my brother for Christmas. He has a shiny new website.

The Judge Wore Shorts Of Cerise Chiffon

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 14:34:34 +0000

Just for a change,I have a little bit of gardening for you: the more attentive among you may remember my embarking on the seemingly futile task of planting a bank of Rhododendrons in the Cotswolds. This has now begun and this singularly uninspiring picture shows the stage which we have reached. The main problem was that Rhododendrons need acid soil and the Cotswolds (as the learned N.Colborn so rightly pointed out) is a range of hills made entirely from lime, ergo alkali through and through.
A cunning solution has been reached. We dug large holes and then imported one tonne bags of finest ericaceous soil from a very charming company in Norfolk (thank you Dawn). These bags were then buried, in their entirety, thereby forming a decent sized acid pocket under the ground. The neighbouring soil cannot get in because of the woven nylon bag. We will mulch thickly and generously and hope for the best. I now need to buy me some decent sized plants .
I have just returned from an encounter with the Passport Photo machine in Somerfields. I always thought that it was one of the more downmarket supermarkets but didn’t realise that that would imprint itself upon my image.
I look like a startled nudist caught red handed while up to my elbows in the alms box of a very small village church. Soon I will be running, butt naked, across the wide dales pursued by a hungover Rector and a psychotic insurance agent brandishing a tuning fork.
Admittedly I had just spent three hours in the dentist but that is scant excuse. The question is whether I just say “To hell with it” or whether I am vain enough to go back and spend another £4.00 doing it all again.
It is a private matter between me and the Passport office.
Now, back to the detective problem as outlined by CamillaP a couple of posts back. I said that Matthew Wilson and Cleve West looked like Starsky and Hutch. This was mostly based on a wish to see MW in a chunky knit belted cardigan. The challenge was to find more detectives among garden folk. These are my suggestions: should you find yourself at a loose end over Christmas please feel free to suggest alternatives.
Cagney and Lacey - EmmaT and Anne Wareham
Cannon: Chris Beardshaw (because it would be quite funny to see him in a fat suit with a moustache)
Perry Mason: Nigel Colborn
Juliet Bravo: Jekka McVicar
Cadfael: Toby Buckland (he would look good with a monkish tonsure)
Sherlock Holmes: Roy Lancaster with Matt Biggs as Dr Watson
Miss Marple: Carol Klein or possibly Ursula Buchan
Jason King: Martyn Cox (the moustache makes it unavoidable)
Van der Valk: Yolanda at Bliss (no other available Dutch people)
The New Avengers: Three Men Went To Mow: Joe Swift is Purdey, Cleve is Gambit and I am Steed (I have a bowler hat)
V.I Warshawski: VP (it’s the initials as well as the natural no nonsense Private Eyeness)
Columbo: Mark Diacono (because of the Italian name and because ,frankly, though multi-award winning he is a bit of a shambles)
Charlie’s Angels: Arabella Sock, Alys Fowler and Lila Das Gupta (with the Garden Monkey as the mysterious Charlie)
Kojak: spoilt for choice really: Joe Swift, Andrew Wilson, Andrew Fisher-Tomlin, Andy McIndoe

I understand that my previous post with all the various references to the dead animals colonising my dustbin may have upset vegetarians and people of a sensitive disposition. As compensation I would like to share this short video of Norman Barrett and his performing budgerigars. Marvellous stuff the like of which we may never see again.

I also received a very interesting email informing me that I had just won £750,000. A nice lady from, apparently, the University of the West Indies told me. I will, of course, be sending all my banking details off to her colleague Mr Linfo Swiss at his untraceable email address in Hong Kong. My what a welcome Christmas present that will be: vintage Otter Farm Fizz all round and maybe a new solar powered Humvee for weekends.
Happy Christmas to you all. May your stockings be lined with cashmere and your stuffings be both aromatic and deeply fulfilling.
I am listening to Enna Bella by Eric “Monty” Morris. If you don’t know this particular track you are missing out. Last year I was listening to EmmaT’s excellent 1998 album, Winterland, which easily can be downloaded from iTunes. The cover has a fine photograph of Emma adjusting her black polo neck and looking both sultry and approachable (although her eyes are quite scary if you look closely). The reviewer says that “her voice is eerily beautiful and she is quite skilled at piano”. Which sounds a bit like a school report.
Last year I wrote a post about Christmas Singles (rather a good one, if I may say so although the comments have sadly vanished). This week I spent the vast majority of my dental marathon listening to compulsory Radio 2 (up to the point when I could no longer cope and put my headphones in and listened to Johnny Cash). Therefore, I am right up on seasonal ditties and they will now be forever linked in my brain to root canal work where the anaesthetic does not quite reach all the parts it should but it barely seems worth mentioning it so you might just as well grin and bear it. Especially bloody Cliff bloody Richard. Martyn Cox has written about his rather worrying Christmas Music selection here. Combined with his taste in knitwear I am thrilled by the probability that he is turning into Val Doonican
The picture is of snow and sunshine and Ligusticum lucidum.

Butter Yellow Shoes Suited The Rapscallion

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 20:25:52 +0000

I wish to make an announcement: the following post has virtually nothing whatsoever to do with gardening. If you are after horticultural insight, vegetable growing tips or handy hints about compost then look elsewhere.
Instead I wish, firstly, to talk briefly about my dishwasher. This may seem like an unusually dull subject even among the flotsam (i) that hangs around this blog but you may be pleasantly surprised. We have just bought a new dishwasher: made by Bosch. There is nothing particularly special about except for the fact that the instructions are very precise about which plate should go where. By this I learn that our diet from now on must be slightly less all encompassing than it has been in the past. Gone are tender fricasees and roiling rissottos. A sneaky bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes is a distant memory. Acceptable are Spinach, Hackfleisch,Egg and Porridge. Everything else is either banned or must be hand washed. I was going to show you the relevant diagram but I lost it so really this whole bit is irrelevant.
Perhaps it would be more sensible to move on to the main business of the day: the Three Men Went To Mow Christmas Special.

We shot this yesterday in my barn. The first of a new Christmas tradition which, we hope will be as eagerly anticipated as the Morecambe and Wise or the very dull kilted New Year thing with Moira Stewart and Kenneth McKellar (ii) that was about the only thing to watch while forcing oneself to stay awake till midnight.
I also wish to mention my dustbin briefly: I know I have covered this in a previous post but this week was, I thought, worth a passing nod. The contents were:
A lot of those annoying polystyrene packing things - if somebody was going to pass a useful law then could they please ban all parcel packers from using them.There are some perfectly good ones made of, I think, stale Prawn Crackers that are as effective, compost and taste exactly like a rice cake (another of those things that are really only edible when very,very desperate).
Twelve mice (iii)
A squirrel
A piece of moulting, rancid fur that was retrieved from somewhere by the dogs. Initially I thought it was a bit of Panda pelt but after a bit of thought I realised that might be a little unlikely so have decided that it was a bit of really, really, really dead badger skin.
I am listening to Undress Me Now by Morcheeba. The picture is of Privet berries - the pictures on my title page have become all befuddled for some reason. Sorry.
This time last year I was having my hands photographed.
In 2007 I was photographing sunsets while driving.
In 2006 I wrote about Velasquez and Hal Moggridge. Those were the days when nobody read this blog and I was a lone cultural beacon. Nowadays I have been dumbed down and mostly write about dead vermin. I blame that Cleve West.
(i) Flotsam is wreckage or cargo found sloshing around the sea or washed up on a beach. Jetsam is stuff deliberately chucked off a ship. So now you know.
(ii) He was our entry for the Eurovision Song Contest in 1966 . I don’t think we won.
(iii) The mice got their just desserts after devouring over two hundred tulip bulbs in less than a week: I don’t mind losing a few but that is beyond a joke.

Without Warning The Almonds Began To Hover

Mon, 7 Dec 2009 17:36:13 +0000

There is something different about this Blog of which you may, perhaps be unaware.
I have just won two awards: firstly for being Best Dressed Gardener: this was part of the internationally prestigious OMG Awards inaugurated by Martyn Cox. Obviously it would have been better to win Most Snoggable Male but I suppose that title will always be Cleve’s. Still, my tailor will be delighted.
Secondly, I won the Garden Media Guild Blog of the Year for the second year in succession.
It may be that the revelation of this difference may leave you severely underwhelmed. You may even raise an eyebrow, lift one side of your perfectly glossed mouth into a sneer and say “And....?” in a quizzical yet dismissive fashion. You may even find yourself faintly nauseated. I on the other hand am extremely chuffed and delighted. Especially as I got, in addition to cheque and certificate, an official seal. It is, sadly, neither performing nor fishy but quite nice anyway.
The nominees were: Matthew Appleby, VP, Jane Perrone, Richard Jones and Graham Rice.
Anyway, a huge thank you to those that chose and thank you especially to all who read this stuff: even the quiet ones who choose to remain silent and anonymous. People seem to tolerate my ramblings and that is immensely rewarding - sadly that is it as far as rewards go, I was the only winner who had not been paid for their efforts. This sort of blog is written for the pleasure of writing, the gratification of the ego and the hope that somebody is listening. I may not do so well next year after making a speech that said that print media was probably on its way out and I forgot to mention the divine EmmaT : for the second year running. I had every intention of doing so but in between hearing my name and reaching the stage my brain turned to mush. So I am in the poo, again. (Mind you it would be easier to remember her if she bothered to write a post every so often instead of lolling around being fertile.) I cannot even remember what music they played in my honour: if anybody knows could they tell me, please?
I had a very jolly time sitting amongst pretty tippy-top company including the fabulous Hayley Monckton and Lynn Beddoe from the RHS. The Zapata moustached Martyn Cox. Photographer of note Marianne Majerus and flame haired Patti Barron from the Evening Standard. I failed to talk to either as they were sadly just beyond hailing distance on the other side of an extravagant floral arrangement. Also the horticultural equivalent of Starsky and Hutch: Matthew Wilson and Cleve West (come on, you know that Matthew would look fab in a chunky cardigan). Finally Mark Diacono who scooped up two Awards:
This is award one for book photography. He looks a bit smug, like a newly appointed apparatchik in a minor totalitarian state who, after heartlessly planting fabricated evidence on most of his rivals, has been appointed supreme manager of the ministry of outside catering.
A few minutes later Mark accepts award number two (for Practical Book). This is Mark looking as if he has been sussed out and now stands as political criminal condemned to a couple of decades of hard labour shucking peas or satisfying the unnatural desires of larger prisoners.
He is accepting this Award from Johnny Mobasher who I always knew as the honcho at Hartley Botanic. Now I discover, via a Tweet, that actually he is a photographer of talent and edge (see website here). I presume that greenhouses are a lucrative sideline and make a bit of a change from pounding pavements.
Many congratulations to all concerned - details here.
In previous years I have been able to show mildly titillating pictures of various garden bigwigs in compromising situations (here and here) but, sadly, the light in the smart new venue was definitely unsuited to low resolution photography and all pictures turned out grainy and blurry. Generally most unsatisfactory: although they do have a certain Pammy & Tommy Lee graininess to them which makes innocent events seem pleasantly surreptitious: for example Jane Owen greeting the RHS Shows Top Wallah Stephen Bennett.
Many people retired to the pub afterwards for further celebration: notable exceptions were EmmaT (too pregnant), Matthew Wilson (too many small babies), Jekka McVicar (lecturing in Bristol) and various others. Mind you the pub was very crowded and mostly taken up by Martyn Cox arm wrestling all comers and various members of the Gardeners World crew.
This picture is of Mark Diacono and two national magazine editors (Tamsin Westhorpe of The English Garden and Lucy Halsall of Grow Your Own) renacting Michael Jackson’s Thriller. No, I have no idea why there was quite so much dry ice either.
Eventually, I too left and rushed to catch a crowded train. My luck ran out at that point as the fattest, smelliest, beardiest man available decided that he should slump sleepily on me and even the sharpest elbow digs just seemed to sink into his fleshy side without actually waking him from his dribbly slumbers. There was also woman who looked just like an elf with pointy ears sticking out through long black hair.
The main picture is of Nerine Lohengrin growing at Wisley.
I am listening to Caballo Diabolo by Charlie Daniels.

The Troll Was Perfectly Happy Under The Bridge

Tue, 1 Dec 2009 13:59:48 +0000

I wish to comment on a comment I received on the previous post. You could go back and have a look but to save you the trouble (nothing but 5 Star service for my readership) I will paraphrase.
I said that the gardens submitted to the Garden Design Journal Review of the Year were a bit samey and I wanted to see something different and perhaps a little bitty bit scandalous. I then received a comment from that rosy cheeked Chris Young (Deputy Editor of The Garden, in case you didn't know) who is terribly wise for someone so youthful.
Interesting what you say about Garden Design Journal. As a past editor, I feel I can say this: but yes, Mr Hat, you are right. A lot of the schemes are the same that we have seen for the past few years, and many are devoid of a sense of place/location…... Last year in Garden Design Journal, as a response to the 2008 review of the year, I complained about too many white walls being used willy-nilly – and see there are still a dotting of those about this year. But, as all good authors are trained to do, ending on a positive: the quality of the build seems to have ramped up considerably in the past few years. Must mean that the relationship between contractor and designer is getting better....hurrah!
Quite. I think the sense of place thing is exactly the problem: as usual Mr Young puts his (slightly Marmitey) finger on the nub of the problem. There is little idea of surroundings and nor is there much in the way of truly fabulous planting design. I may well be that this latter is due to dodgy photography and youthfulness of garden. All theses are just niggles though.
It probably doesn’t really matter but Contemporary is becoming much more of a style rather than a moment in time. It seems that, in order to be Contemporary (capital ‘C’) your garden must be all about minimal clean lines and a limited palette of plants. The exact opposite, perhaps, of older, more traditional gardens which were more plant orientated and had softer lines. The best gardens take three things into consideration: the building which they surround, the people who will use the garden and the greater landscape (urban or rural) upon which they gaze. All of which can be tackled in a contemporary (small “c’) way but sometimes it is a matter of slightly tweaking the traditional rather than shoehorning in another glass rill. Be brave but don’t be crass.
This twirls rather neatly into Mr Young’s point about white walls. I was at Grand Designs Live a few weeks ago where I had a conversation with a charming couple about their garden (my role for the day was to give a lecture and then sit at a table and answer questions about people’s gardens: which mostly involved lots of swift back-of-a-fag packet designs). They had built an Arts and Crafts style house (lots of indented red brick and oak posts) and were keen to get onto the garden. Their idea was to have a big ‘contemporary’ deck and then a Mediterranean courtyard backed with white walls, a hot tub and bamboos. The connection between style of building and style of garden had been completely ignored in a hunt for something modern and lifestyley. - as seen in various magazines. Probably including Grand Designs Magazine. I tried very hard to persuade them to see the alternatives but then I thought: maybe that is what they really want and what right do I have to trample upon their dreams ? To me the garden as they described would look unutterably ghastly but if that is what they want should I disabuse them?
Usually I am extraordinarily bossy with my clients on the assumption that they are paying for my opinion and not just for me to do what they say….anyway, that would be a jolly debate for another day. Remind me, will you.
And, to take a leaf from the great Deputy Editor’s Manual of Successful Writing and finish on as positive: yes I think contractors probably do get on better with designers. When I was a contractor it was dull beyond belief being treated badly by designers some of whom, and there were many fewer in those days, knew very little about how to actually build a garden. The most obvious example was a designer who wanted a steeply sloping gravel path: without steps or anything to stop all the gravel gradually descending the slope and forming an unruly heap. Always listen to the contractors, many of them speak enormous sense..
Mr Young also mentioned French Fancies which sent me off into a spin of fondant inspired euphoric recall. For those who live in foreign places a French Fancy is a cube of sponge cake (about 2” square) topped with a dollop of creamy icing stuff.
Wait, wait..that is not all. That is just an almost healthy armature for what is to come. The whole caboodle is then firmly enveloped in a bright coloured strait jacket of fondant icing. Each box of half-a-dozen cakes delivers sufficient sugar to rot the teeth of approximately thirty two schoolchildren. And their parents and their parents’-parents.Yeah even unto the fifth generation...
The chocolate ones,as the all wise C.Y also says are not nearly as good as the others: probably not the right balance of e-numbers. All hail, Mr Kipling - the only reason that Mr K has not yet got a knighthood is because he has no discernible Christian name and you cannot go around being called Sir Mr Kipling.
I have been doing a lot of garden stuff this week but have run out of room to show you.Wednesday was a particularly good day as I picked up two new clients within three hours. Interesting ones too. I also drove to and from Gloucestershire four times to set out plants and generally rally round encouraging the troops who were wading around in mud.
The picture is of the Wisley glasshouse under a lowering sky. I am listening to I’ve Got My Pride But I’ve Got To Feed The Kids by Rodney Crowell
Two Years ago I was being quite very slightly rude about a Ducal garden.
Three years ago I was making a pathetic plea for readers and remembering my rather inadequate career as a gossip columnist.