Naturally Gloria tucked her tail between her legs and fled. She doesn't like people until life has flattened them out a bit. I suspect she is secretly quite fond of Zombies.
We arrived expecting to see the tidied aftermath of the storms and neat piles of autumn colour on the lawns but the garden is resilient. In the dank weather it has been marinaded in magnificence. Culinary sensibilities have changed. My late mother would have said it had been dipped in it.
Among the grey packed slabs this little group of Crocus tournefortii are a delight. Some of the plants are slapped on the structure like post-it notes of rarity on the side of a refrigerator, but this Crocus has the style it takes to decorates a Stegasaurus.
The RHS have a marvellous collection of cultivars of Nerine sarniensis and for many years they have been wheeled out onto display as they flower, a source of much simple delight. For a couple of years they were staged with arch floricultural theatricality in a black stage set with individual limelights. Quite repulsive.
Fortunately we have returned to some rows of pots on a shelf and the Nerine can sparkle in their natural beauty without anyone needing to make the 'don't' explicit.
This is the latest in a series of adventurous plantings in front of the greenhouse. It is great fun, though it has been made rather soft and fluffy by the 'never mind the quality feel the width' planting around it.
Gloria didn't mention penises once. I think she had finally been exhausted by likening the herbaceous planting in the Bowes-Lyon Rose Garden to pubic hair on a Lego brick.
We had a marvellous day.
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