I'm a broken man.
For the last two seasons ( My first to seasons incidentally) I have taken a very dim view of flowers on the plot. We need Borrage and sunflowers for bees and I have ranks of sweetpeas that border or fence my herb garden for the bugs. That's good enough. Bee and bug demands covered. As far as I'm concerned that qualifies me as a florist.
See. A bug on a borrage plant.
Sunflower. Nothing there that's going to harm you. It's six feet tall. It's a man's flower!
Mmmmm. Herby goodness. Sweetpeas far left growing up canes. It a pretty fence if you will.
So imagine my surprise when one cold wet February morning I arrived at the plot with a packet of Dahlia seeds bought on a whim at Sainbury's in Hornchurch following my regular hair cut.
Without going into too much detail I love my trips to the hairdresser. The guy that cuts my hair makes me look human and the beautiful salon is owned by my very, very dear friend Kerry. The whole experience is a unalloyed joy from start to finish and I look forward to it immensely. However, whilst railing against the flower for so long I now find myself buying flower seeds after my haircut. What new devilment is this?
Is Kerry putting something in my coffee? Perhaps it's the scalp massage administered by the lithe nimble fingers of the Trainee and Saturdays girls. Who knows.
I must be strong. Perhaps I will eschew the coffee and decline the hair conditioner. Maybe then I'll cowboy up a bit.
Oh I planted them alright. Lovely. Just like John Wayne's
