Thirst For Knowledge

Gardening7

Another week over and what have we done?

All of a sudden it is Saturday again. The last Saturday in April, with temperatures apparently rivalling  Mexico and garden centres heaving with well to do old ladies and me.

For the most part garden centres in Britain get a rather bad press. Over-priced, under-stocked and indeed purveyors of all that is half dead and out of season. But not the one a few miles down the road from me. Yes it is a tad expensive, but oh look at the service! See wandering around the a-z of herbaceous perennials a man with a daft hat who will tell you everything you need to know about that obscure little plant in your trolley and should he fail, will happily accompany you to the garden education centre wherein lives a vast shedful of bearded men of knowledge. It is wonderful. So I have spent the morning there. Plodding about in blue garden clogs I shouldn't really leave the house in and learning everything there is to know about lavender so when I get around to it, I can pull up the weeds in the front garden, plant myself a lavender garden and re-name the house Lavender Cottage...

I have in the past week found myself drowning in information. If ever my thirst for red wine rivals my thirst for knowledge I give you my permission to send me to rehab post haste. I am stockpiling books like they are going out of fashion. Reading into the early hours of the morning, and standing brushing my teeth with a book propped between the taps. There isn't a moment to waste!  There is so much to learn.  Veins to fill with  ideas I've never before considered and a cavernous mind waiting for the spark of my personal literary grail...

I have almost given up cooking. Slathering home made mackerel pate onto fresh sticks of French bread instead and trying not to see the crumbs scattering between the pages of another best friend. Drinking espresso late at night so I can live to finish another chapter and fiendishly doing battle with she who dared to reach for  the musty old book of my dreams at  a rather fuddy duddy fleamarket this morning...

And  all because I have fallen in love with Beverly Nichols.  A man who knew what it was to live, to plant, to decorate and at  times to merely pass the time away meandering around his garden. A hilarious man driven to the point of distraction by bad taste and ill-mannered staff, and indeed a man who recognised the joy of dailiness and sought in anyone of his beloved homes, a sense of oneness with every item it held...

This is a literary crush if ever there was one, but readers, darling readers, expect more. I have at last committed to writing a BrocanteHome book and if I know myself as I think I do, I suspect it will be an age before I put pen to paper, convincing myself (as I already have) that what lies dormant in my mind is not enough to create anything worthy from until I have sandwiched it between the knowledge of every housekeeper who came before me, every woman who was ever dumped and every mommy who knows how it feels to want to feast on her babies life...

Why I do believe this is called PROCRASTINATION...