Now I would be...

the first to admit... 

I am a top-show sort of girl, 

you know the sort, not matching bra and knicks, clean, but sort of not clean.  It always amazes me how some people look at all times as if they have just stepped out of a grooming parlour, whereas I always look like I have just stepped out of an ice cream parlour.  Squeaky clean, from the top of their shiny hair to the soles of their well cared for shoes.  Whereas me, well I always have an aura of ‘she looks okay, just don’t get down-wind of her’ persona.  

Sad, but there you are!

Okay, okay,I get it, however where are you going with this little epistle LL?

Where I am going is inheriting a garden designer’s garden is a ruddy eye-opener.  All looks wonderful to begin with, bit like a stage set, you know the sort of thing, the inside of a miner’s terraced front room.  Trouble is as you watch the play unfold you notice that the walls quiver as the door is shut.  The standard lamp light doesn’t always come on the minute the actor has put his hand up under the shade to turn on the light.  It looks good however in your gut you have the feeling that all is not as it would appear?

This garden is a case in point, a show garden.  As you delve you discover the plants that were taken out of their pots and plonked in to the bare patches without thought of whether they would be happy there.  They have struggled, their pot-bound roots have hardly had the energy to break out, and why should they when they know this really isn’t the right spot.  I am being used here, you hear them cry, much like a starlet on a pervy producers arm... top show!?!

The garden, as the husband would say is being Letticed.  Out with the showgirl, all frou-frou and no drawers and in with the demure happy-to-help to the insects and wildlife shrinking violets that are the all giving no nonsense plants.

I am exorcising Angel’s garden.

The power has quite gone to my head, casting couch, anyone?