How
I adore pottering around my raised beds when the sun’s rays adorn my lawns. Rodgers,
our ageing Head Gardener, has done a splendid job over the years though I cannot
help but notice the herbaceous borders are in danger of overshadowing my
forking larkspur. Upon further, more
detailed inspection, indeed, I note the shabbiness of my lady garden; it has
clearly been denied periodic trimming.
My disappointment,
momentarily abated by the evocative call of a lone mistle thrush, returns with
vigour when I observe that the bird baths not only lack fresh water but reveal a
somewhat unkempt exterior.
Yet matters
further deteriorate when I venture beyond the box hedges. Really!
I must take Rodgers to task for allowing the herbs to proliferate in
such an unstructured fashion.
Being a
kitchen garden is no excuse for disarray. Indeed, it is of no surprise that Cook’s new
assistant was unable to locate the oregano on Saturday evening. Though how she could have selected borage as an
acceptable substitute, I cannot imagine. It is hardly to be wondered that the beef failed to reach an acceptable standard. Thankfully, my guests - local dignitaries
from the Enterprise Award Scheme – were not blessed with the most sophisticated
of palettes and therefore remained unaware of the herbal mishap. (They may have originated from the lower end
of the social strata, but I am grateful they limited their use of napkins to
the correct facial function. I still
recall that ghastly incident last year when a despicable representative from
the Mayor’s Office blew his wretched nose on my starched linen.)
In the
meantime Cook must take her supervisory role a little more seriously. We have another dinner engagement a week
hence and I do not want a repeat of this culinary débâcle. Indeed I will see
to it that she details to her young charge both the location and merits of our
wide range of free range herbs.
As
far as the gardens are concerned, this shameful situation cannot be allowed to
continue. I shall invite Rodgers to
partake of a pot of coffee with me in the orangery tomorrow morning and use the
occasion to air my increasing unease over my foliage and his commitment. The standards of Farthing Hall’s gardens, I
will stress, are not negotiable. The simple
question is whether or not he has the desire to retain the responsibility of managing
my undergrowth.
No comments:
Post a Comment