When I began tending this garden, some thirteen years ago, I declared there would be NO PINK.

‘Attention all!’ I said ‘This garden will be a thing of exquisite taste and rare beauty. I do not want any common-as-muck pink flowers of any kind. Pink is offensively suburban and I won’t stand for it.  I have spoken.’

No-one was listening, but I do think the dogs were quite impressed by my speech.

And thirteen years on…



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Yes, I had standards once. It appears they have slipped.

Or maybe I’m just less of a dick these days.



Here is old Pierre de Ronsard, happily recovered from rabid bastard possum attack. Pierre adorns the side of the arbour that faces the vegie patch. Which is coming on, but we could do with more sunshine. The other Pierre, who is adorning the opposite side of the arbour, is working on a Mystery Project. Details to come.

Meantime, I am embracing the pink.

God, I hope that’s not a euphemism for something disgusting.