I did a tour of a very famous person’s gardens recently. Not something I would normally do, and certainly a Ladiesofacertainage stomping ground. Just not sure if I’m there yet – spiritually.
Loved the gardens, loved the back stories and all that. I felt as though the activity was pulling me toward ‘handy’ little stow away plastic rain hoods, a tartan trolley for ‘the big shop’ and driving shoes for the Honda Jazz.
So for me it was a little polarizing. I don’t have a Honda Jazz by the way, my lovely mother in law does. It’s easy to get in and out of, easy to park, good on fuel and has left her car port probably four times in the last year.
As we trundled round thinking about how we could rustle up some grand-scale topiary at home or create a walled kitchen garden just next to the rabbits’ hutch, we happened upon a little clearing in the arboretum area. There was an obelisk thingy, very tall, very slim, standing on a sort of tripod stand.
The guide lady – a delightfully posh and endearing character who clearly loved the gardens – was in full flow, pointing out various trees, their provenance and whether they enjoyed the climate there or not. Another friend was standing leaning on a big golf umbrella. During a pause in the silent clearing, while our guide drew breath, she dropped the brolly, with a loud clatter on the monument’s concrete foundations. It went off like a rifle shot.
The guide spun round and admitted, clutching her heart, that she thought we’d knocked over the obelisk thingy. Given our friend with the brolly must weigh about 9 stone wet through, I’m pretty sure the obelisk had the jump on her if it came to a mano e womano shove off.
Having established the expensive bit of stone was ok, the guide wasn’t having a heart attack and the brolly wasn’t bent we sallied forth.
But I do have this undeniable urge to go clubbing and do shots. If only I could stay up beyond 9pm. Oh dear.