A dinner guest gave me a pot of three pink hyacinth bulbs as a gift a couple of weeks back. Rather than immediately staking them, I foolishly allowed them to reach for the ceiling, then, just as their scent reached its most intense, they keeled over like a trio of teenage girls after one too many Bacardi Breezers. Still, the task of wrangling them back into some kind of sober uprightness was made pleasant by the wafts of perfume released every time I touched the flowers. As usual, all my plant stakes are at the allotment (which, although only a short walk away, is not somewhere I wish to be on an unclement evening like tonight) so I was forced to improvise. The wooden kebab skewers poked into the sides of the pot, carefully avoiding the bulbs, worked a treat with a length of green raffia, and even looked rather stylish. Once they've died back, this trio will make a pretty addition to next year's spring flower display in the garden.
The stake search did make me realise just how chaotic the ancient filing cabinet that squats in the corner of the garage and, in the absence of a shed, serves as a pot and equipment store, had got. It may only be January, but any self-respecting gardener is already planning what seeds to sow and germinate with some bottom heat. Not my bottom, you understand: the bottom of the seed tray, as supplied by my two nifty electric propagators. I think a clearout is well overdue. And you never know, I might find those broad bean seeds I never got around to planting late last year ...
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