make them grow I would be the doyenne of Chelsea Flower Show.
My stares, glares and evil eye,
make not one jot of difference.
I fanny about stage managing the greenhouse, the pots, the wires for the vine to grow. Impatience is the name of my particular gardening game. I pop seedlings fresh out of the womb of their seed casing into the cold soil. Heartlessly I heed not one word of their faint feeble cries.
I lavish them with the best possible compost, the finest ageing pots, made from the clay used to make the terracotta army. Chimney pots wait in serried ranks, old wash tubs stand expecting their call to arms at any moment.
And will the little buggers grow?
Oh dear me no!
Well maybe, but to their own agenda, even the might of Lettice Leaf is no contest to Mother Nature.
It’s as it should be, reluctantly I realise as I sit drumming my fingers on the wormery.
At least those little critters seem to be working hard, so all is not lost here in deepest Ludlow.
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