The Thin Line

'Intruders Keep Out'. Every home could post a severe warning at its entrance. I'm weeding the front borders of this ancient farmhouse where wild Valerian spills onto the gravel and meshes with tough grass and bramble.

Wearing the owner's gardening gloves, wielding her secateurs, I hack back enthusiastically. Until I'm struck by a deep sense of intrusion. "Is this what she wants?" I ask myself and tread the fine line from helpful to intrusion.

Stepping back to her seat beneath the vine, I sense my job is to cut out damage while keeping the beauty of gentle leaves and deep pink flower heads that frame the doorway to the house.

As temporary custodian of the space, I take the gardener's Hippocratic oath, promising to leave the garden in good health, treat it with respect and encourage it to thrive for years to come.

The Tango Lesson

Any skill develops with practice; get out of practice and you feel uncomfortable. As your practice develops, you forget the time when it was new and difficult to learn.




The Argentinian tango night at Reading's Canoe Club creates a strange mix of pleasure and pain. Pleasure to see familiar faces and hear the music. Pleasure to be close to the River Thames on a Saturday night, taking the pulse of the river and admiring candlelight from the terrace.




Pain reflects my embarassment and lack of control. Memories of lessons past drift in and out as I pivot clumsily and accept invitations to dance with strangers. The negative voices rise in my head: "You can't remember the steps;" "You could have bought a new dress;" "You're out of your depth." Can I go home yet?



I stop. I turn around and notice the other dancers of all shapes, sizes and ages. Experts encourage newcomers to join the dance regardless of faltering steps and moments of indecision. I remind myself that I have chosen a difficult dance and allow myself to enjoy the learning right now. Skill grows with practice and encouraging teachers: the real tango lesson.

Switching to Plan B

Like a child let loose on the 'pick and mix' sweet counter, I'm back from the local home-grown plant nursery and the old Peugeot is stuffed with a chaotic array of plants. This time last year, I filled five large terracotta pots with deep red agyranthemums, lime green surfinia petunias, variegated nepeta and felicia. All happily co-existed on the patio through an unpredictable and damp summer.



I had a stylish, winning formula to repeat.

By March, the plan began to go awry: first, the frost-free greenhouse heater cut out and the strident agyranthemums died a black death. Lime green petunia plugs bloomed a lurid fuschia pink - not too tasteful. So I created a neat plant shopping list on Saturday to save the day, and the plan fell apart completely: I was beaten to the nursery by earlier plant hunters.

Instead I returned with blue/black salvias, juicy big begonias, ornamental millet, trailing indian mint and zig zag scaevola to live with the dark trailing geraniums and fushias I've been nuturing.

As I look out on the garden now, they're a happy bunch of companions with the moon shining down - chirpily random and just not what I'd planned. When work is challenging, I tell my clients to have the plan and be willing to adapt to circumstances. After all, the formula worked for Charles Darwin. Now I'm swallowing my medicine to see how it all grows.