A cyclamen, a pretty weed, potentially a dandelion and nothing but earth.
These are the four beings currently flourishing in the flower pots just beyond my window.
A cyclamen, a pretty weed, some Cosmos and a wealth of wildflowers.
These are the four entities that I had hoped would now be thriving in the flower pots just beyond my window.
At face value, a fifty per cent success rate might not seem too bad.
But this is the point at which I admit that the cyclamen was gifted to me by my Mum, whilst the weed marks the beginning of a second generation following the unfortunate wilting of the first.
For a while now, my job and my ripe old age have been leading me towards an ever-increasing interest in the world of gardening, but seeing my plants in such peril has reinforced the newfound respect I harbour for the green-fingered among us.
I’ve always appreciated the art of horticulture, despite the prospect of having to watch Gardeners’ World and the like filling me with an inexplicable dread of boredom for much of my teenage years.
Both my Nan and my Mum are brilliant gardeners. Whilst they never fail to modestly protest that they’re far from being professionals, they have a far greater knowledge than I.
Indeed, they have many more victories too.
Together, they were responsible for sowing the seed that eventually helped me to see the immense beauty and challenge every tiny little piece of greenery presents.
As any gardener will tell you, the key is patience.
I tried to keep that in mind as I eagerly awaited the sprouting of my own shoots.
All in good time.
Reminding myself of this each day, I soon saw evidence of one reward.
This year was the first time I’ve ever attempted to grow anything from seed and although I had to concede defeat on the wildflower front, out of nowhere two of my Cosmos cannily carved their way through the soil.
Rule two of gardening; accept that certain things simply won’t thrive in the spaces you’ve put them, but take the time to really relish the ones that do.
With their distinctive lattice of leaves taking shape, I optimistically anticipated that the buds of one of my best-loved blooms would soon burst forth.
Alas, disaster struck.
Stems snapped. Deluged, lacklustre bracts disconsolately draped over the periphery of their pot.
I could hardly bring myself to look at them for heartache.
Nevertheless, I trimmed them back, left the soil where it stands and vowed to try again.
In the grand scheme of harvests and horticulture, my loss was minor.
But it did make me realise how tremendously intelligent and dedicated you have to be to triumphantly combine the grand with the green.
If I’m ever lucky enough to procure my own pygmy plot, I’ll earnestly endeavour to do it some horticultural justice.
Fortunately, I feel the balance may well be tipped in my favour on account of there likely being a bundle of bushes and a plethora of plants already prospering.
Adding my own touches here and there will be a pleasure.
And maybe one day, perhaps with the passing of a few seasons, I’ll gather just enough courage to brave the pitfalls of a blank botanical canvas again.
All in good time.
Modernish 