close up cold environment flora
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I am not in the same league as some of the gardeners here on WordPress. Frankly, I am in awe of their horticultural prowess.

I do however have a few meagre RHS qualifications and occasionally some Latin names find their way from the dusty crevices of the grey matter. Alas, give me houseplants and I’ll kill them. I will kill them by either forgetting about them or overloving them.

I suspect historically that happened to a few relationships as well. (Obviously I didn’t actually kill the boyfriends, although I’d have liked to have thrown a few plates, vases and saucepans at some; but that might have made me seem a little unhinged, and I’m obviously not that.)

Yesterday however, and back to the gardening, I took the train from London and came (sans mon husband) to visit my parents-in-law. The reason: Obviously to enjoy some time with them, but also to help with their garden.

And garden I did!

Yes, it was chilly. Yes, my nose was a little sniffy and my ears turned attractively scarlet in the freezing cold, but it was glorious! And I thought I was a fair-weather gardener…

Fresh air and exercise has culminated in a tidy garden which has cleared out the cerebral cobwebs and frankly I crave for more. The sense of achievement has left me feeling unattractively smug and faintly pleased with myself. So if anyone wants to put me in my place or their garden needs sorting, you know where I am … well, sort of. Although, there’s limited internet here so if you’re horribly rude I won’t be able to retort quickly back or indeed give you my address. Bother! 😉

Katie x

Do you have green fingers?


43. The Good Old Days?



I once had a garden in Oxfordshire, England. Sincere apologies if I’m sounding like Meryl Streep in Out of Africa … ‘I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills’. Somehow it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, and I certainly don’t see Robert Redford kicking around here ….

However, in my garden, I discovered that digging up potatoes is like finding buried treasure, rather exciting. Picking beans (before the dog has sniffed them out) is total satisfaction, and the monotony of shelling peas is absolute therapy (mindfulness I think it’s now called).

Now, it strikes me that these are some of the normal everyday tasks that our grandparents used to do … did they suffer from anxiety and depression? Did they have the same levels of diabetes and obesity that our generation suffers? Did they hand their child in the supermarket a packet of crisps and their phone to play on, in order to stop the tantrum? I don’t think so somehow …

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying they had it easy in any way, shape or form particularly with the advances in medicine as an example, but surely there’s some form of halfway house to be had?

They did the washing without the help of a washing machine, they cooked without blenders and microwaves, they cleaned without hoovers and spray polish, they wrote, read and enjoyed handwritten letters. Everything took time, and effort and patience was the norm and absolutely necessary.

No online food deliveries or factory-made meals with ingredients defined by letters and numbers and more often than not, ending in ‘phosphate’. What exactly is disodium diphosphate anyway? Some sort of raising agent … what’s wrong with an egg from a happy chicken. I’m on a roll now, warming to my theme .. does anyone actually know what partially inverted refiners syrup is? Apparently it’s in my ginger nuts. And no, I don’t really want to know, I’m just having a rant on my soapbox.

Perhaps I’m simply feeling a little nostalgic for an era of which I only know snippets of, from what has been passed down through the generations. Perhaps I crave some simplicity in my life to help me. Perhaps I crave some digging up of potatoes, weeding the beds, working up a sweat and doing these things that we now call mindfulness, but in those days was just called life. Perhaps I simply crave my garden … not at the foot of the Ngong Hills, just my little simple garden in England.

Katie 🌼

30. The Pot Plant


I’m a gardener. That’s what I do. Gardening is how I have earned enough money to keep the children in food, clothes, cinema tickets, Jack Wills and/or Hollister hoodies (usually and), followed later on by the inevitable laptop (“Durr Mother … I need it for school.” “Does this mean your grades will improve?” I ask in response, and am promptly granted a withering look) and of course, mobile phones (“Double Durr Mother… In case we’re abducted by some axe-wielding madman” … Hmmm, best not answer that one). Most eloquent, my children.

Gardening is what I love to do. Transforming bland areas into a places of beauty with a few seeds, cuttings and a whole lot of hard graft. Total therapy …. mindfulness to the nth degree and even better when it’s not accompanied by horizontal rain and gale force winds. There’s nothing worse than cold water seeping in through your collar, working it’s way down your back and finally reaching your knickers. I really do dislike a cold, soggy bottom, but then I am a soft southerner.

However, indoor plants are quite simply not my thing. I may have RHS qualifications and experience coming out of every orifice, but indoor plants … no. Indoor plants require attention … they are needy, demanding. Only room for one individual with those traits in this house (no prizes for guessing who).

I underwater them, I over-compensate and then overwater them. Over, under, over, under. I forget about them on their windowsills. I forget about them in sitting room, the kitchen and they hate my inconsistencies. They become flaccid and droop, yellow from chlorosis, turn up their toes and die, invariably then finding their way, with a helping hand from yours truly, to the compost bins….. Never having flowered, produced seeds and and therefore never even having been allowed an attempt at reproducing. Imagine going to the grave, never having had sex …. A life badly lived.

Now, I mentioned a few weeks ago that a friend of mine had very kindly given me a box containing an Amaryllis, complete with plastic pot and appropriate compost, and yet my heart sank. Oh God, the pressure to keep it alive! To make matters worse, she is a neighbour who often pops in for coffee, a chatter, a natter and a general putting of the world to rights. Would I have to hide the evidence of one flaccid Amaryllis and it’s impending doom? Should I not allow her into the sitting room perhaps? She was bound to ask … And I am supposed to be The Gardener. She who knows all. Clearly not the case after all.

So, I made a decision. I would treat this plant as I am now treating myself. I would nurture it. I would nurture it with love, consistency, routine and structure (and a teensy bit of Baby Bio if things got bad). I would water it as per the instructions and not deviate. I would feed it also, as per the instructions. I would take my orders and do exactly as I was told. For those of you who are beginning to get to know me, you’ll know that this is not my forte, however, this is the new me and I’m really, really trying.

If it died, then the penalty would be to go and purchase a brand spanking, shiny new one, complete with flowers and pot and costing about the same as two packets of cigarettes or two bottles of wine. And finally, I would have to confess all to my friend. Ha! The deal has been struck and hands have been metaphorically shaken. I have a job to do.

Weeks have now passed. And as I sit here in the warmth of the sitting room with the January sunlight streaming though the windows, I glance over to the table where a tiny miracle of nature has taken place. An Amaryllis standing proudly with rich and succulent green leaves is just, just starting to flower. The swollen buds are no longer tightly closed, but instead are unfurling, opening gently and slowly, revealing the luminous purity of the beautiful white petals within.

A sense of peace and pride is washing over me as I realise that everything needs nurturing, but more importantly, nurturing with consistency. We need it, our relationships need it, our children and even, a silly old plant.