Taking the air

It became a habit that I'd take the boys over to see Granny on a Sunday morning.  When they were babies, it was a huge solace for me. She'd sit cradling them and talking to them and the baby who'd been noisy all night was calmed. As they grew up, we'd spend our time outside in the garden in which I'd grown up. About 3/4 of an acre of meadow which she had worked tirelessly and stubbornly to tame.  There were trees that had been planted when I was a small girl, now 30 feet high, and my own conker tree which had grown into an enormous beauty bearing conkers of her own.  As the boys grew and did their own campfires (who could forget the paraffin-flavoured drop scones? or the stew into which had accidentally fallen a large clump of grass, only discovered upon serving?), I began get on with jobs elsewhere in the garden. Whilst the boys became more self-sufficient, Granny became more elderly and I took over the garden. Increasingly, I'd head over on...

The pot, once at home with my father-in-law, had been driven half way across the country so that it could find a new home with us. It wasn't of much monetary worth, but it had been a favourite and was an important reminder of his beloved garden. I gave it prominence and planted it with a candy-coloured fuchsia that I hoped would emphasise its turquoise. The pot had been in position for approximately 48 hours when it was run over by a drunken teenager attempting to return a bicycle to the shed. Of course, the drunken teenager attempted to prop it back together, in the hope, presumably, that we wouldn't notice the staggeringly large crack or the scattering of flower heads and compost surrounding it. I'm making the best of the relic with some very forgiving houseleeks (sempervivum) in a quiet spot away from the shed. So far, so just about ok.