This isn’t a moan, or a gripe, or a temper tantrum. Maybe it is a little bit of each. Mainly it is a sigh.
I had a wonderful afternoon in the garden. My garden. Potting on cuttings, pricking out seedlings, pootling about. Marvelling at the anarchy of the borders and making strange noises at next door’s cats. All was well in the world.
Clearing up I wandered out to fill the green bin and had a gander around whilst I was there. Which was where Disney turned to Tarantino. The half barrel, previously full of life, was now barely half alive. Where there had been an enthusiastic Impatiens puberula there was now mush. The vigorous dark-leaved geranium now reduced to a single anaemic leaf. An almost geometric line across the container was now dead or dying. What catastrophic event had occurred?
I texted the builder “please pop around before you go home”. He arrived with his mate, all dewy eyed and hopeful. We stood around the container and gazed at the carnage, each hopeful that Scotty would beam us up. He did not deny it was their fault. Mr Nobody had obviously tipped something on the unassuming plants. He was very sorry. He did look quite sad.
I tried to be cross. I am rubbish. Sigh.
As you are unlikely to enjoy the sight of dead plants, you can wonder at the beauty of flowers and seed heads of Clematis tangutica .