Salvia argentea, the Silver Sage. Do I sound like The News at 10.00? If so it should go something like this:
First I will tell what is coming: we will be featuring Salvia argentea, the Silver Sage. Then I will cover the main story of the day which just happens to be Salvia argentea, the Silver Sage. Half way through the programme, just in case you have forgotten, I will remind you that we have been focusing on Salvia argentea, the Silver Sage. And then, to sum up what has happened, I will yet again jog your dodgy memory that we have been talking about Salvia argentea, the Silver Sage. But, because I have filled all available time with fluff, you are none the wiser about this delightful, southern European short-lived perennial.
The only difference is that this furrisome delight is worth repeating, over and over again. Unlike most news items.
Today I did my tax return. It is not particularly complicated and the on-line submission is relatively straightforward, especially if you are paying attention and not distracted by someone blithering on in the background. The figures involved are rather petty, I am computer literate and love a good spreadsheet, but all the same it took me most of the day. The result wasn’t to my liking, but then I doubt it seldom is. Anyway it is done and well before time. I could get used to the role of Head Swot. Mind you I haven’t actually paid it yet, they will have to wait for that. The money is much safer in my bank account, who knows what the government are planning on spending it on. I’m guessing it won’t be “peace, love and understanding”. But less of such doldrums.
Now I feel frazzled. I need some florific respite.
This callistemon, or bottlebrush, enjoyed the weather this week rather more than the gardener. As it comes from Australia, whose climate is considerably far removed from North Devon, it must have thought “about time, some decent temperatures!”. Mind you, it didn’t do much in the blistering heat, except perhaps a bit of photosynthesising, oh yes, and producing these incredible flaming flowers.
There has been another label malfunction. This little veronica is nameless to all but its close relations. The use of a non-permanent, water-soluble pen when labelling this little beauty was perhaps a mistake. Let us not beat about the bush, it was daft. Of course if I had realised any writing was going to disappear at the first hint of drizzle then I would have relegated it to list making duty. Probably. If I was in rush I may have used it as a stop gap until I had found a better one. Then wouldn’t remember to go back and right my wrong. Most likely. These things happen. Tell me why then, when I find yet another label as pure as the day it was born, I look at it, tut a little and stick it back next to the plant that it once named? Perhaps for the time when, having a more appropriate pen primed in my pocket, the person who bred this adorable cultivar is passing and tells me its full name? Ever the optimist.
Dusky aquilegia in the dappled shade.
Which was where I was skulking most of the day. Unfortunately this did not involve a hammock, the latest hort-lit blockbuster or even a pint of piña colada. Just spiteful nettles, strings of enchanter’s nightshade and stubborn self-seeded ferns. Well you can’t have everything.
Yesterday was tough. I made it til 2.30 and the threw in my trowel. This Catananche caerulea, Cupid’s Dart, was still looking cool, blue and refined in the post 30C temperatures. I, however, was red, blotchy and sweaty. I thought a photo of the flower would be preferable.
It is hot, but I expect you knew that already. Back to work tomorrow after a long weekend off. Lovely holiday weather, not so good for working. Never mind, I am well prepared with cooling clothes, cover ups, sun screen, hat and water bottle all at the ready. Expect another tale tomorrow night.
Something else that is a bit toasty is this Geum ‘Blazing Sunset’. A bit tasty too!
My beloved Dad died too long ago to be quite right.
It was only this year that I realised that when I say “he died too soon” what I really mean is he died too soon for me.
Does that make sense? Do you understand?
Over the years I have had so much to tell him, things I needed to share; some that would have pleased him, made him proud, others would have made him angry. He could have given me comfort when I needed it most, he would have made me laugh as he always did, given me a cuddle just because, and have continued to be his charismatic crazy self.
What I am trying to say is that I wasn’t finished with him yet. I’m still not finished.
Of course he would probably argue that he would have preferred to hang about a bit longer as well.
In the mists of time, on a bizarre whim, I pruned his roses. They all died. He laughed I think. He wasn’t bothered. He forgave me, yet again. They were horrid standards anyway. It was for the best.
My pruning skills have improved greatly since.
Happy Fathers Day x