Rain. Stop Now.
In which bulbs are held hostage, desperation breeds creativity, we talk wigs, and a book that means everything to me.
I may have lost the plot. The regular visits to the garage offered a sure sign – me, popping out there at all times of day, taking a weird kind of pleasure in holding hostage my unplanted, sprouting bulbs in their cardboard box cell. It’s been cold out there these last few weeks, so despite their necessary exile, their sprouts remain remarkably small, shoots not yet engaged, and instead of what would normally make me quake with worry and guilt, I’m surprised by just how deliciously dangerous this makes me feel!
You see, there really is nothing to be done about it. The water butts are overflowing, the borders becoming soup, and the rain gods are clearly not listening. Or if they are, they’re enjoying themselves far too much. I’m all for people having a good time, but honestly? I wish the weather would show some restraint on the days I might actually make it outside – I’d be so very grateful.
Through all this, I keep reminding myself that plants WANT to grow, not actively curl up and die when you get them. That’s true of bulbs and seed too, (though we should always give them all the conditions they have in the wild for them to germinate. I realise the hypocrisy coming from me, a bulb-prison governor). Despite my devilish eyebrow-raising bulb torture, I have once again earmarked this coming Sunday for planting – a theatre trip on the Saturday matinee rendering me unavailable to my garden for the whole weekend again.
Not pure selfishness on my part I promise. A Christmas gift from my dear friend Thea Thompson, the ceramicist – we’re off to see Oh, Mary! with Gilbert, and friends. It seems to be the new hot ticket. The Tony Award-winning Broadway transfer that’s landed at the Trafalgar Theatre in London, has rave reviews saying it’s razor-sharp, gloriously camp, and apparently features the brattiest wig in the West End. Obviously this means I’m all in.
It follows a miserable, suffocated Mary Todd Lincoln in the weeks leading up to Abraham Lincoln’s assassination. Despite the subject matter, I’m hopeful, especially as The New York Times called it “one of the best comedies in years”. I’m rather in need of howling with laughter right now, so it feels well-timed. Thea’s daughter Maggie is at the Brit School studying drama, Gilbert’s doing his Drama A Level, so there’ll be plenty of theatrical critique on the train home, I’m sure.
(While I’m mentioning Thea – she runs The Waldron, a creative space on the farm she shares with her husband in rural Sussex. The ceramic studio is housed in a beautifully restored 15th-century barn. There are eight wheels, on-site kilns, the works, and they run masterclasses in throwing, hand-building and surface decoration, plus painting courses and some garden design. Friends who’ve done her ceramics workshops have raved about them. Perhaps I should sign up myself. Perhaps not – knowing me I’d come home with seventeen wonky planters and call them ‘artisanal’.)
A quick thank you to my paid subscribers who make My Real Gardens possible.
Your support is what keeps my wheelbarrows of words and photos coming.
If you’ve been enjoying my occasional free newsletters and peeks over my garden fence, I’d really appreciate if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Behind the paywall today you’ll find:
· My backup plan for unplanted bulbs – desperation breeds creativity (my idea may be slightly unhinged, but it might just work)
· My cosy reading corner set-up for the difficult days
· Three book recommendations including the one that’s been gathering dust on my nightstand – and why I’ve discovered it’s best listened to rather than read (plus how to borrow audiobooks completely free)
· News about A Year of Colour with pre-order links
· A first-look live on Sunday 25th January – for your eyes only
Plus, you’ll get the audio version, links to everything mentioned, and access to the archive. You’re joining the Potting Shed – joining people who understand that sometimes the garden has to wait while you sit with a cup of tea and just... breathe.
