I am not a gardener so when I caught the tail end of Chelsea on the TV rather then admiring the planting and sight lines or whatever should be appreciated I got stuck in my shallow as a rill way on Alan Titchmarsh. Particularly on his hair which seemed to have been oddly espaliered. Whatever his parting was up to it was not working in linear harmony with the candy stripes of his blazer.
The only living green thing I am primary carer for is an umbrella plant. All other fronds and foliage whether inside or out tend to be here on short term tenancies before meeting their Christmas tree style eviction. A grand sweeping staircase and Bing Crosby entrance and exiting as a bundle of size zero twigs a few weeks later.
The umbrella plant however is now entering its teen years and has grown to be a gangly youth of 6ft. It arrived as a housewarming present and is now in its 3rd pot. It should have had more and has probably suffered the root ball equivalent of out grown shoes and scrunched up toes. But at least that way we avoided the platform sole arguments. However now it has grown so tall I am beginning to feel it might be moving into a slightly malevolent phase. I look at it and think what am I going to do when it reaches the ceiling and I fear it looks at me and thinks future compost. At the moment the ultimate winner of Darwinian gold is not clear.
It will be no surprise therefore that my garden is a masterclass in hard surfacing and that my sight line is stone and gravel to panel fencing where the only creeper is next door's cat in search of a feathered floss. The closest to nature my garden gets is on Google Earth where the two round stone patios look like crop circles.
However in the way that peer pressure when young leads you astray into unsuitable but enjoyable activities, peer pressure mid life, leads you up the garden path to the mixed bedding plants. As a result I am now the owner of 19 plants corralled into 9 pots. Lightweight I know although it didn't seem like it when hauling 75 litre bags of compost.
I have potted and watered and stood back to admire. At the moment we are mutually unsure. Will I remember to water, let alone pinch out or dead head so that the plant can put all its energy into new growth? Is gardening advice meant to sound like the self help section? Do Deepak and Percy Thrower share the same script ?
The plants themselves look like they were on route to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, took a Tom Hanks wrong turn and ended up at a ferret fanciers meet instead. Peering nervously out and over the tops of their pots , anxious in case something fast and furry is going to make good its escape and mistake their stalks for a friendly trouser leg.
We will see. Will it play out as Bill and Ben meet The Terminator or will pots multiply and my garden become the floral equivalent of the Christmas lights garden drive by. Either way I am going to be keeping a close eye on my parting.





