Today didn’t pan out quite how expected and I only have myself to blame. Today I was due to travel to Marwood Hill Gardens to interview and photograph for an upcoming article in Devon Life magazine. Today I was to have wandered the gardens, free from the detritus of the public, to savour the beauty of these wonderful gardens free and unfettered. I told people where I was going; my neighbour, Hero, my mum, anyone who cared or dared to listen. I may have been a little smug. That was, I believe, my downfall.
As yet innocent of my impending doom, I got up early and combed my hair whilst looking in the mirror at the same time. I wore clean clothes, including my lucky knickers, and put a watch on for the first time in many weeks. Off I set on my big adventure.
Then my car broke. It didn’t strictly break down, it just made an alarming “boing, boing, boing” noise as I drove the 1/4 mile necessary before the nice recovery men would agree to help me. I don’t know an awful lot about cars but it sounded like trouble to me. It was as if I had run over Zebedee and he was trapped beneath. I did check, just in case. Which is how I yet again came to be loitering in my rescue place of choice, Tesco’s car park, waiting for a recovery vehicle. Instead of wandering, possibly skipping, around the majesty of Marwood, I was eating a sun-aged winter mixture and wishing I hadn’t had that last cup of coffee, waiting for a knight in shining boiler suit to tow my car away. In between Rescue Me and Being Resuced I had time to cherish a different kind of planting. Please see above.
After the prognosis I decided, rather than take my rescuer’s offer of a lift home, to do a bit of shopping, so it wasn’t a totally wasted trip. Little did I know that my normal calm demeanour was to be tested to the limit by the woman in front of me at the till. She packed her groceries with all the urgency of a sloth, and twice asked a staff member to get her something she had forgotten, once for “you know, those little things you sprinkle on top of cappuccinos”. All the while she catapulted sickly smiles at me whilst mouthing “I’m sorry” with a little giggle. She then had a spillage in one of her bags, unseen by me and quite possibly imaginary, which had to be wiped up with all the drama of a wannabe soap opera diva. I stood quietly, some might say too quietly, and I watched as others sped through adjacent tills. And I was close. Very close.
Then home with a loaded rucksack and two full carrier bags, not a cappuccino sprinkle in sight, to tell OH the wonderful news and impending doom bill.
My lucky knickers have been sacked.