I don’t have a garden, but I’m lucky enough to have a bit of a terrace with some pots on it. The tending of these pots, along with the ironing of socks and dusting of ornaments, is something I have always left to my mum but she is isolating much more than a fork’s length away, so it is down to me to take charge. There are two important things you need for gardening: an appreciation of plants and stuff, and a certain amount of patience. I only have one of these.
I started by tearing out indiscriminately anything I judged to be overgrown. Over the phone my mum implored me not to be too hard on the bay tree, but I’ve savaged the thing, showing it, among other unkempt-looking greenery, who is the boss. In the space cleared, I have probably planted far too much new stuff, having sourced dozens of pots and trays of sad-looking plants, mainly from petrol station forecourts.
They are slowly coming to life and may even flower one day if the bloody snails leave off them. I live on the fourth floor; how do they get up here? The dozen I dealt with the other night must have started the climb well before lockdown, which is a great effort, but they are really not welcome. Getting rid of them was quite straightforward. All I had to do was don a head torch and prowl around for an hour muttering darkly. Afterwards I felt guilty and dreamed of being slimed to death by a giant snail.
But I realised I would be better at this whole caper if I had a clue which plant was which. Mint, parsley and decaying daffodils were all I could name. Now, to my joy, I have found an app, Picture This, which miraculously identifies any plant or tree you point it at. So I can report that my azalea, winter creeper and Mexican orange are doing very nicely, thank you, even with me in charge.
