Sod It

   Some dabbling in family history has shown me that I am not a descendant of one of the ‘lost’ illegitimate children of Charles II; I am not the missing heiress to a massive fortune and I am certainly not related in any way to a lunatic or criminal. No, I am proud to say that my forefathers, or foremothers if you will, were all sons (or daughters) of the soil. Common agricultural labourers. It took them some time, and the Industrial Revolution, to realise the error of their ways. The large and growing cities had, or so they thought, much more to offer and they became ‘common factory labourers’. In that wonderful exploitative Victorian society there was not a patch of soil or a blade of grass on which the ‘working classes’ could use the hard won skills they had gained from working on the land.

   As housing improved for the poorest in society it was deemed that a return to the soil would be advantageous for these ‘poor unfortunates’ and for society in general and so they were given tiny gardens to cultivate. Unfortunately skills are not inherited and many of these gardens remained patches of soil surrounded by a privet hedge.

   I suppose it could be this ‘peasant’ background, a return to my ‘roots’, that has given me an interest in gardening. There is a very faint chance that this could be so, but why have I not developed an interest in becoming a wire drawer (whatever that might be!), the occupation of my great, great…. Grandfather?

  But gardening is much more than planting, growing, tending and harvesting. It is the pretext for visiting the GARDEN CENTRE!

  When I had my first, very own garden it was stocked with vegetation that came from a nursery, a place where young plants are nurtured. A visit to the nursery was practical. Armed with a list of shrubs, with appropriate Latin names, the items were quickly purchased and established in their new homes before the day was out. But then the GARDEN CENTRE was born. A visit to this little Eden can take the whole day and often there is little of horticultural value that is purchased. It is so much more than a nursery and an interest in plants is no longer a prerequisite for a trip.

“Do you fancy meeting up for a cup of coffee?” I am asked by a friend. There is no need to enquire, I know that the nearest GARDEN CENTRE is the obvious choice. “I want another bag of compost, my begonias need potting on. So I’ll see you in the coffee shop in about half an hour. Bye!”

I am late. The search for a parking place amongst the people carriers, coaches and all makes and colours of car almost makes me give up and go home. Luckily an enormous four by four leaves me a space quite close to the entrance.

 I find Jen who’d just finished her cup of coffee and was about ready for another. I join the queue and have to pass the home made cakes, which I drool over. For the time remembering my diet. Then comes the lunch-time menu. Maybe later! I ponder over the long list of coffees and opt for cappuccino with cinnamon topping. The coffee is quickly consumed and my search for compost is about to begin. The coffee shop is full of people with well manicured nails who look as though they wouldn’t know one end of a spade from the other. Tables spill out onto the patio area, which is edged with soft play equipment. Children are screaming and shouting whilst being watched, from a safe distance, by their indulgent mothers.

 “Shall we go our own way and meet up for lunch?” I suggest.

“Yes, I need to have a good look at the hebes and heathers.” We synchronise watches and begin our separate quests.

I decide to leave my purchase of compost until later and have a mooch around first. An hour later I have a vase, two greetings cards, a book about little known English villages, a walnut and raisin loaf, a cross stitch kit, some hand cream and a butterfly brooch for a friends’ birthday. Looking at my watch I realise that I am late, yet again. I get to the restaurant just before Jen. We decide that we deserve a treat and opt for a melted Brie and tomato baguette, feeling quite virtuous as we could have had a full roast dinner.

“I’ve still not got that compost and I would like to look at the roses. I’ve got a space at the back of the garden just crying out for some colour. How about we meet up in about an hour?”

“Good idea. I haven’t got as far as the heathers and hebes yet. I did get this lovely sweat shirt though.” I admire it and decide to go and have a look at them before tackling the compost. On the way to the clothing department I notice that there is a special offer on cookware. I’ve needed a new cake tin for ages and extra ramekins are always useful. These are added to my trolley along with a very nice lilac T shirt. Looking at my watch I am late again. I join Jen in the coffee shop where there is a cappuccino and a cream cake waiting for me.

We discuss purchases and then arrange our next meeting.

“How about that new place that’s opened out near the airport?”

“What a good idea. There’s always something I need for the garden!”

We part, with me promising to ring her next week.

On arriving home I unpack all of my purchases. Its not until I’ve washed the ramekins and the cake tin; tried on the T shirt; looked at the instructions for the cross stitch; wrapped the brooch and addressed the cards; tried the hand cream; put some flowers in the vase and enjoyed a slice of walnut and raisin loaf whilst I leaf through the book that I realise I’d forgotten the compost!

 Oh sod it! Maybe a quick trip tomorrow would sort that out. And I could look at the roses as well.

I wonder if my great, great… grandfathers would be proud of my gardening skills!