I have a tiny garden.
I have one meagre plastic greenhouse.
I have a large biscuit tin full of seeds, some collected, some gifted, some purchased.
I have little time for sowing, pricking out, potting on, tending.
So what did I do today? I ordered more seed. Twelve packets. Not only did I order more I ordered the unsuitable, the tender, the needy. The azure Willow gentian, Gentiana asclepiadea, the milk chocolate foxglove Digitalis parviflora, the red hot flame nasturtiumTropaeolum speciosum, the golden pea Lathyrus aureus, and an old friend, the cape wattle Paraserianthes lophantha. The words alone are pure poetry.
When the packs eventually arrive I will sit and carefully examine each in turn, imagining all the beauty that is contained within. I will praise them. I will flatter them. I will coo.
Then they will go in the tin, with the others, who no doubt diverge the sordid truth.