Glastonbury for Gardeners
I took Ross, the non-gardener, to Southport Flower Show today. I sold it as Glastonbury for gardeners. There was definitely quite a lot of water around after yet another rain storm last night, but we all did that British thing of Getting On With It Whilst Wearing Sensible Shoes or Pretending It Wasn’t Happening Whilst Wearing Unsuitable Shoes (ahem). We didn’t do rolling naked in the mud. It’s not the thing, apparently.
We saw glorious sunflowers.
There was a book tree. Isn’t it gorgeous?
Best typo ever. Poor little bonsai apple tree.
Cherry tomato tiles. Yes, really.
They were on the floor next to the cherry tomato jukebox.
These are the winners of the most colourful cabbage competition. Beautiful, aren’t they?
Non-flammable polyester nightie masquerading as begonia.
Giant onions. It’s difficult to describe these vegetables without using hand gestures which kept getting me into trouble.
See also carrots. I need to get out more.
I challenge you to say Sarsaparilla without going all Calamity Jane. It can’t be done.
See, Glastonbury. Sparkly things and dreamcatchers and utterly gorgeous food and muddy feet. And everyone, everyone was so friendly and lovely. I chatted to loads of gardeners and stall owners and arranged loads of visits to local nurseries.
And we interviewed some vegetables on the National Vegetable Society stall.
‘Well, darlin’, it was like this. We got a call from the National Vegetable Society saying all Trevors had to do their bit for Queen and country. And I said to myself, I said, Right Then Trevor, you need to get all your mates called Trevor and we need to get down there to Southport and do our duty. We’re going to stand here all weekend in this basket.’
”Ello! We are the tomatoes called Cederico! We ‘ave come to show you our human pyramid. Except we are tomatoes and not human.’
‘Sweetie darlings! We’ve put on our best lipstick to be here with you this weekend. Isn’t it frightfully FUN?’
‘What? What’s wrong with us being called Pablo? Look, we’re actually quite glamorous, you know. It was no trouble at all to find sixteen beetroot from the North West of England who happened to be called Pablo. Shut up.’
I think it might be time for a cup of tea and a lie down. More tomorrow.