Muristek
If gardening is good for the soul can I get any life points for several geraniums and a clematis I haven’t killed yet? The annual panic has set in that summer is approaching — June 21, I checked — and the floral abundance which should surely be spilling over in my little strip of soil doesn’t look like it’s about to happen. It’s entirely for the lack of trying, plus no natural green-fingered ability or knowledge. I tried to buy geraniums in March and the kind man in the garden centre looked at me like I’d asked for crack cocaine, and explained I was much too early. The only houseplant that’s survived is a six-foot fig tree which likes not being watered and appears to be thriving on years of neglect. I’ve tried a similar approach with several cacti, which apparently do need to be watered occasionally. The death toll grew so much my daughter knitted me a cactus as a tribute to those we’ve lost. Every piece of research says that anyone lucky enough to have a garden can find tranquillity among the pots and pottering, and it’s not just for silver-haired retirees. Liz Hurley, Gwyneth Paltrow and Jake Gyllenhaal are all enthusiastic gardeners; and Jake’s an organic vegan, so he’d share his passion within the first 30 seconds of meeting anyone. A recent Gardener’s World Magazine survey found gardeners were more likely to be happy with their lives, and Japanese research says they’ve also got a lower BMI. In that case, sign me up. I embraced it a bit during the pandemic, like everyone else with some soil and time on their hands. With the zeal of a beginner, I was sure spiky pink things raised lovingly from seed would tower majestically at the back of the bed. They got to about two inches tall and gave up, so I did too. This year there were bulbs which were planted right at the end of their planting window according to the packet instructions, and they grew. It was like producing a first-born when those little daffodil heads swayed in the breeze. There were also packets of seed, strewn in drifts like Nigella Lawson in an allotment, which should by now have been doing a Chelsea Flower Show outside the kitchen door. But they got eaten by waves of hungry slugs. My husband does greenhouse duty — it’s more of a plastic playhouse with various fruit and veg; he loves getting his hands in the soil, which it’s claimed can stimulate the happy brain chemical serotonin and boost your immune system. But the soil is where the slugs live. I know because they keep eating the seedlings. Each year I make a promise this will be the one where I have a bed bursting with interesting planting, the way it was when I first inherited it. Unfortunately, no one told me the difference between a baby weed and a baby flower, so everything got enthusiastically cleared. The intention doesn’t come with any actual effort, so I get to about now and freak. Then it’s time to hit the garden centre, and zone in on the reduced plants first. They might be half-dead, but they’re also half price. This year’s visit was spent debating whether the cost of plants has rocketed with everything else, googling how they’d feel about being completely ignored until late spring 2023, and then buying a geranium. They may not tower majestically, but at least they are hard to kill. Email roisin.gorman@sundayworld.com
Most Read