Please label my plants not me

Someone told me that horticulture was for middle-aged and middle-class ladies who had little to do.  Well, I’m not going to talk about my age and I’m definitely not middle class but I want to put the record straight.  I’ve been growing things since childhood.  Endless certificates of commendation for a daffodil grown in a pot were down to my dad’s skill and patience.  A primary school must have and dad encouraged my talents.

At the same Victorian-built primary school, I led one of the growing teams.  My dad had his allotment and I had a little L-shaped patch of mud facing the High Street.  Caretaker funding cuts prompted the head teacher’s plan to get us gardening and practising team skills.  I soon learned the hard way which plants flourished in a drought.

My relationship with gardens hasn’t faltered.  I’ve been able to transport some of my leafy possessions from one garden to another.  The 16 year old bay tree by the front door and the standard wisteria (of similar age) in the back garden are thriving despite a three month stay in a storage yard.

The longest serving horticultural friend of our family is the clump of yellow hellebores basking in the sunshine today.  Dug up by chance when my parents moved to an apartment, it lived happily in a plastic carrier bag for at least a year, before flourishing in our previous garden.  And then we moved it here along with all those memories.