I’ve revived sad trays of greenery rescued from forecourts and even – oh, joy – found an app that tells me which plant is which
I don’t have a garden, but I’m lucky enough to have a bit of a terrace with some pots on it. The tending of these pots, along with the ironing of socks and dusting of ornaments, is something I have always left to my mum but she is isolating much more than a fork’s length away, so it is down to me to take charge. There are two important things you need for gardening: an appreciation of plants and stuff, and a certain amount of patience. I only have one of these.
I started by tearing out indiscriminately anything I judged to be overgrown. Over the phone my mum implored me not to be too hard on the bay tree, but I’ve savaged the thing, showing it, among other unkempt-looking greenery, who is the boss. In the space cleared, I have probably planted far too much new stuff, having sourced dozens of pots and trays of sad-looking plants, mainly from petrol station forecourts.
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