Like the rest of the population, Mrs N and I are trying to tighten our joint belt for a while. Easier said than done when Tuesday is Over-60s Day at the garden centre.
This is no ordinary garden centre, this is a supercentre. And it was like the Invasion Of The Pensioners down there yesterday. It was a bad decision to join them, because I have this slight problem with plants. I am addicted to them.
Mrs N ought to tie me down whenever I mention the words garden centre. And I should hide her credit card whenever she speaks them – because she’s as bad.
Says it as shouldn’t, our garden is a picture at the moment. And so it should be – we’ve spent a small fortune on it over the years and many couple-hours whipping it into shape. I needed some chicken manure pellets (non-gardeners don’t panic – it’s legal) to help keep it that way, so we thought, might as well take advantage of the 10 per cent discount for the old fogeys, maybe have a browse if we’ve got the time, perhaps a coffee even.
Oh, dear. Fatal. First I saw the most gorgeous Lewisia, but dragged myself away. Then Mrs N spotted the dwarf Campaula she’s been hankering for. And our eyes met and a telepathic message flashed between us … one each, that’s all, that’s the limit.
So we grabbed a basket and the two plants and then had a little browse round the pots and assorted terracotta accessories. Fatal No. 2. That prompted a ‘well, we might as well take FULL advantage of the 10 per cent discount’ decision, and before we knew it we were trudging back to the car with three plants, two pots, some ericaceous compost (non-gardeners, look it up immediately after Lewisia), some slow-release plant feed, and sore feet.
We arrived back at Napper Towers slightly guilty and very hungry. And then I remembered the chicken manure pellets.
Oh, shit!
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