Lush hangers on

Looking out in the garden today, the juicy colours of Autumn merge with with hangers on from summer. Deep, dark claret geraniums and petunias still flower while the fuschias hang pinky white heads over the pots like stragglers from last night's party, reluctant to say their farewells and sleep.

Lush terracotta pots full of winter pansies hold the tulip bulbs under cover from enquiring squirrels. Piano sounds deepen in the background; the soundtrack in tune with the dripping of rain coming through the kitchen ceiling once more.

Perhaps next Spring, we'll finally fix this roof. Meanwhile it steadily re-assures me that nature will always win over our efforts to get the world in order.

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.

Honesty

Honesty (its Latin name is Lunaria) has self seeded right through the dustiest border in the garden, offering a generous flowery white skirt to the new red leaves of the Cotinus Coggyria, the smoke tree. Soon a dark blue clematis will join the party, weaving through the branches.

The honesty came out of nowhere. I didn't consciously plant the seeds.

Watching this 'stuff' happen in the flower beds is like reading Fiona Robyn's new novel 'The Blue Handbag' as it unfolds sentence by sentence. Her book gently records the life of its main character, Leonard, an unassuming gardener mourning the death of his wife Rose. It's a mystery story.

Honesty cannot help but come out bright and white, and I'm anticipating the slow dawning of truth that will appear on the page, as it always does in the end.