Fancy a spot of gardening?

Now, I’d always thought that gardening meant spending time in one’s garden, on one’s knees, trowel in hand, planting little bulbs, spreading compost, digging up things, dead-heading roses, watering, mowing, hoeing, spreading, fertilising and the like.

But apparently not!

I have just been put on “Gardening Leave”. Which is to say, that I have resigned from my job and because I’m skipping off merrily into the arms of a competitor, I’ve been asked to leave.

I have to say, I do understand the reasoning behind it. Wonderful Man, when he bravely left his advertising job to set up a photography business, was put on gardening leave of three months. And I have spoken to friends in the City who say it’s a regular occurrence. Apparently it’s because when you resign, if you’re going to a competitor, then there’s a good chance that you’ll be very naughty indeed and start to pinch paper clips. Or even staples. Tut tut! So instead of giving you the chance of pinching paper clips (or even, damn you to hell, staples), you’re – very politely but firmly – asked to “please remove all personal articles from your desk and vacate the premises forthwith. And don’t try and nick any staples on the way out, because we’re watching you”.

So off I went! With a bit of a lump in my throat, I have to confess. For no matter how excited you are about your next career, it’s always sad to leave your last one. Especially after five years. But onwards and upwards, as Amelia Earhart used to say.

And of course, during gardening leave I’m not allowed to say anything about gardening leave. Rule Number One with Gardening Leave: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Two: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Three: You Never…well, you get the picture. With apologies to Fight Club. Hence the reason this is all a few months late. I didn’t want to be taken outside and lined up in front of a firing squad for Talking About Gardening Leave.

But believe it or not, I have actually been doing some gardening! Really, truly and honestly! You see, even though I have a windowbox as a garden, Wonderful Man has A Garden. Well, I say that now because you can actually see it now. But when I started, you couldn’t. Honestly. In order to reveal his garden, I (we) donned protective gloves and armed ourselves with secateurs, and cut down an army of brambles. Some of them were higher than me! But as we clipped, chopped, snipped, yanked, ripped and decimated these mighty Lords of Luna, a garden appeared. Little trophies, long since hidden, started to present themselves like jewels. A michaelmas daisy here, a hawthorn there, a budleia in the corner, and right in the middle, an amber bush. Too pretty.

We also revealed a pond! Albeit a very cloggy one filled with very large, smooth stones. Now, before I tell you this story (which isn't for the fainthearted) I should explain that Wonderful Man's garden backs onto a railway track. So you can imagine the shocked faces of the commuters to see me, clad in t-shirt and shorts, up to my thighs in the garden pond, lugging stones out. 'Twas a sight to behold. Wonderful Man popped open a beer and sat back to enjoy the view, and as for me, I got rather into it! By the time I had finished, three commuters had had minor turns and I'd evacuated a pile of stones the size of a mini. But the pond was clear! If a little shallower than it had been.

So now it's garden planning. Being a keen and recent devotee of The Good Life, and a huge fan of Hugh Hairy-Marketstall, and wanting to grow everything good to eat, I drove a hard bargain. Hence the left hand side and half of the back flowerbed will be turned over to rosy tomatoes, spinach, runner beans, sweetcorn, apples, strawberries, gooseberries, rhubarb, you name it I'll grow it. And the rest will be wildflowers, a butterfly haven.

Now....we haven't actually started planting yet. But we will. As soon as we've had a nice sit down on the deckchairs and poured ourselves a long, cool drink. Ahhhhhhh....the life of a gardener. Does it get any better than this?

Vampire or Victim?

Now there's a question. You see, Wonderful Man and I have been invited to a fancy dress party tonight (please excuse the involuntary shudder). We have to go along as something beginning with the letter "V". Simple! we thought.

But it turns out that there are very few things beginning with V that you can dress up as. Hmmm. Well, there's vampire. Vamp, for that matter. Vixen (although how you'd get that lovely fluffy tail, I've no idea). Ummm. Victim? That was my first thought, but having experimented with yards and yards of petticoat netting, a rippingly stunning bodice and torn tights, I just looked like an Essex girl after an average Friday night. So what else? Voyeur? I could go along with a balaclava and a pair of binoculars. Perhaps a tad boring. Wonderful Man has decided to go as a vulture, complete with a black feather boa and a beak. Rather strangely brilliant.

Vet? Yawn - man in white coat with fluffy toy. Viper? Yes, but how? Vegetable? Now I'm just getting silly. Valium? Now that could be interesting. Volcano? That's a goodie.

To be honest, I quite like the idea of going as a vamp. Ever since I played the part of Polly Peachum in the Beggar's Opera, festooned in net petticoats, a ripping bodice and mussy hair, I've quite liked the showgirl look. Maybe I can combine and be a vampy vampire?

Back to the dressing up box. Depending on my success, you may see a photo up here. People of a nervous disposition please look away...

Do elephants play golf?

No, surely not. What a preposterous question!

But if I was to ask, "Do elephants play with Golfs?" then the answer would have to be yes.

And here's the proof.

A horse called Rocky

Or Champion Rockefeller the Third, if you want to give him his full name. Horse in a million.

You see, I'm reminiscing a bit today. I found this photo:



...while I was doing a bit of clearing up. It's a photo of my Mum and her horse, Crackerbarrel - he was a gift from her parents on her 21st birthday. Rather beautiful, I think you'll agree! (and not just the horse).

We've always been a bit of a horsey family. Except Dad, who is not horsey at all. Not one jot. When he returned from one of his business trips to the states when we were children, we gathered around to hear him tell the tale of When I Was Put On A Horse. Fresh from gymkhana-ing, and festooned with rosettes, I bounced on his knee. "Did you canter? Did you gallop? Did you jump anything?"

"Well," he said. "It went fast. And my foot came out of one of the little loopy things." Needless to say, we never got him on a horse again.

But for Mum and me, my having been put on a horse for the first time when I was two, her having trained as an eventer and a riding instructress, there was nothing more wonderful than swinging up into the saddle, shortening the stirrups (the loopy things), gathering up and heading out into cold morning mist, the snorts from our horses speckling the air with hot crystals. As we came round our favourite bend, knowing that there was a jolly good gallop right ahead of us across an unploughed field, she'd look at me with a grin. "Ready?" And off we'd go. Streaking across the field like a pair of lightning bolts, the horses with their heads stretched, racing each other, and us laughing like a pair of whirling dervishes. Utter bliss.

I kept that love all through my life and even now, one of my favourite smells is the earthy, musky, oily scent of a horse's neck. When Wonderful Man and I were in Iceland, I was entranced by the Icelandic ponies, great shaggy shapes with cascading manes who lived out in the fields in all weathers. I pocketed sugar cubes from our breakfast table and took them to feed these little hermits - little larger than ponies, but they were feisty! At one stage I was surrounded by about twenty of them, all pushing and shoving to get to my hands. I think I may have fallen in love then and there.

But this is about a horse called Rocky. We shortened his name from the ridiculous Champion Rockefeller the Third, a moniker given to him due to his breeding. For this was not just any old horse. Standing a good 15 and a half hands high, labrador-black and shiny, with sparkly eyes and a nose that could scent a sugar cube from fifteen metres, he was the love of my life when I was a teenager. I still remember weekends spent at my local riding stable where he was kept, mucking out in all weathers, taking beginners on the lead rein, erecting and knocking down jumps, raking the exercise yard, sweeping the stables, you name it, I did it - and all for the chance of taking Rocky out for a swish along the moors. He was Rocky the excitable...never before had I met a horse who would get so excited that he would canter on the spot, much like a child stamping its feet, when we were about to go over the cross country course. Or one that I had to turn backwards before we went off for a gallop, afraid that he would barge past the others in the queue. He would turn his head full circle and nibble gently at my feet as we waited. He was, as we'd say in horsey circles, a goer. Light on his feet, he would appear to float over the fields we traversed, shaking his head and prancing like a trick pony. And his dressage! I won't bore my non-horsey readers but suffice it to say he could half-pass to the left like a pro. Never a beat missed, never a stumble, never even a flick betrayed him. Poetry in motion, and I was simply there to enjoy the ride.

So why am I writing about Rocky? Well, because three years ago, at the grand old age of twenty-eight (Methuselah in horse terms), my beloved Rocky lay down in a grassy spot underneath a huge oak tree and floated away. A little older, a little sway-backed, even a little dip-backed, and with fingers of grey reaching up from his muzzle, and a slightly wobbly mane, but still with those eyes and that everlasting thirst for sugar lumps. I still remember the enormous bite shaped bruise he gave me when he lunged for the sugar lumps I had in my jodhpur pocket.



I've been thinking about taking to the saddle again. I've missed it over the last few years, not had much time, work's always got in the way. But I yearn for the feel of an English saddle, for the snort of the horse, the scent of his mane, the feel of him gathering himself before the final push. I've really missed it. And now it's time to start again. I have dreams one day of owning - outright - my own horse. He would be a magnificent grey, but pure white. Arab, and swan-necked, with a glimmer of dark around his eyes. A big horse, maybe seventeen hands, one that could jump a five bar without even noticing. And a mane that I could bury my head into. I have no idea what his name would be. I've toyed with some - Akkanar, Tresellian, Shadowfax, Hasufel. But none seem quite right. I'm sure that when I find him, he'll tell me his name. For now he exists in my daydreams until the day I can set him free, swing myself into the saddle, gather him up and head out onto the moors. I can hardly wait.