It’s a fairly long running joke in my family that I was blessed with a brown thumb. Basically, plants wither and perish while under my care . . . or lack thereof. I’m not the person to leave that precious maidenhair fern with while you go on holiday. Or the relative you rely on to water your house plants while you’re away. That said, about a year ago my hubby and I had to section off a small part of the yard so that the electricity man could read the meter without being set upon by the Smiling Assassin (AKA my ten year old Tenterfield Terrier, Missy) He barely salvaged a trouser leg the first time he came into the yard, so we quickly built the fence to avoid seeing a grown man cry for the second time.
I then came up with the brilliant idea of having a vegetable patch in this space. My husband looked sceptical and did that one raised brow thing. I mentioned that we had plenty of horse manure and was sure it would become a resounding success. He wasn't convinced, but I finally talked him around with the promise to take extra special care of this new venture. A couple of old laundry tubs, plus two specially made corrugated iron garden beds later and I was in business. Or not. The seedlings went in. Row after row. Tomatoes, beans, lettuce, beetroot, and some sacrificial herbs (Named so because I’ve had several attempts at growing and cultivating these and have failed quite spectacularly each time). And I waited. And watered. And waited some more. The thing is, I’m not all that good at the waiting thing and found when there was little action happening, I forgot my promise and quickly began to neglect my new garden. The soil dried up, the promise of beans and beetroot faded and a couple of months later it was overgrown and full of weeds. I got the obligatory I told you so, and hung my head in shame.