Friday, 1 August 2008


I love Honesty. It reminds me of my grandparents' garden. Unfortunately none is growing in my garden, yet, because I accidentally left the packet of seeds I had especially bought out in the rain one day.

I also like, and appreciate, honesty. I mean, if I was being honest I'd write about how hard the summer holidays are. I mean, really hard. How the beach, the cinema and now, apparently, our favourite place to visit are now out for the foreseeable because it is just so hard, so stressful taking five children, two of whom are two and three and a mere, stupid, sixteen months apart.

And if I were being honest I would write how I am fed up, more than being very cheesed off, probably verging on depressed. How nothing, not this blog (which I normally love for the creativity it affords me), my container garden nor the allotment are even vaguely interesting to me.

But this is probably not the place for such honesty. Gardening is supposed to be soothing, not another chore. Still, feeling fed up with my ugly, messy garden didn't take away my enjoyment of the secret garden in town today. And that's where, walking around breathing in the scents, enjoying the greenery, I picked up some Honesty. Lovely honesty.