Monday, 28 April 2008
I'm not sure if I should be worried. This gardening lark seems to be taking quite a hold. Take, for example, this morning.
I am faced with an unavoidable shopping trip with tired toddlers, one of whom seems to think it's akin to torture to be strapped in his buggy. Why sit when you can run around like a wild thing? Add to this an awful, bone-deep exhaustion that even caffine cannot seem to shift and you get the general feel for the outing.
So what's a newly impassioned 'gardener' (and I use that term loosely) supposed to do? Go and stroke the plastic pots in Woollies? Stand and gaze at a florist's window? Or, if you're lucky like me, remember the secret garden that is nestled behind the shops in the High Street?
Sometimes, and I blame sleep deprivation, you can forget the blindingly obvious. The garden, run by volunteers, used to be a favourite haunt when number one son was a toddler. As soon as we step inside the quiet, walled, ordered world I literally feel my body relax. Couple it with a cinammon latte with whipped cream and a 30-second sit down on one of the many benches and it's pure heaven.
Never mind that toddler son doesn't want to sit, preferring instead to "wok, wok" and that I have to keep reminding him to not pick the plants and to keep to the paths. It is a respite and a chance, in this busy whirlwind world, to stop and smell the roses.