Presenting a garden at the flower show is not simple, you want your flowers to be at their best all week.
One of this year’s themes was recycling and judges were thrilled with this reuse of decking.
The designer also used a classic bench from the end of the twentieth century.
A popular theme in the modern garden is rewilding. NO Mo May is in full swing, but it’s okay to mow some of your lawn so you can find your way to the washing line.
It takes great skill to create the impression that you have let everything run fashionably wild; a pot of blue paint has been used to great effect.
The blue theme unites different parts of the garden.
No gardener wants wheelie bins spoiling the view and this bespoke bin store attracted great attention from visitors to the show.
As did the recycled Belfast sink, originally from Birmingham New Street Station circa 1960s, though provenance cannot be proved. It has hot and cold running water, appreciated by gardeners and dog owners alike – fits most dogs. The terrace was created with recycled kitchen tiles, circa 1980s.
All the hard work and months of planning is worth it when the judges come round with the medals.
‘Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own Mum with Dad in the Antarctic?’
‘Everest base camp.’
‘Wherever, I know it’s somewhere cold and far away.’
I was of course looking forward to the peace and quiet. Naturally I had the normal worries about Amy going off to Australia for her gap year, but I was sure she had inherited her father’s adventurous but capable spirit. She was going with Lizzy her sensible best friend, inseparable since nursery.
The first week it was strange, but friends at work suggested a few outings, glad to have a break from their own husbands who showed no inclination to leave Ealing, let alone go on adventures broad.
I had always had Amy and Ben keeping me busy when Kit was away. Now Ben was grown up, in theory at least and teaching English as a foreign language somewhere nearer to Everest than Ealing.
The new girl at work was very quiet, but apparently she was highly regarded down in packing, where I used to work as a part timer when the children were in primary school. She was dexterous and quick and could pack anything. The company specialised in delivering high quality food in designer biodegradable boxes. We would source and deliver any request from romantic ready dinners to Tower Bridge birthday cakes.
I had progressed to tasting and testing and then upwards to the busy office, where we would source unlikely ingredients and make sure no delivery was ever late. I don’t think Kit or the children ever appreciated what a high powered and stressful job I did, especially in the last half a dozen years with all the world’s troubles affecting supplies.
Our boss likes to look after his staff, it’s why I have stayed so long. I was the first to agree we should hang on to Flinty, the new girl. What I didn’t expect was to become a foster mother.
When the boss said ‘You have a spare room now you’re an empty nester?’
I replied ‘…sort of.’
Flinty had never revealed much about her life and everyone in packing seemed to have heard a different version. Her family lived up north, her mother had gone off to Spain to find herself, her father had just gone off. She was house sharing with uni students, she was house sharing with drug addicts, she was living with her boyfriend’s parents, an aunt had taken her in.
Whatever the truth, it now seemed she was not living anywhere and there was no longer a boyfriend. All she needed was somewhere to sleep for a few nights and HR were going to look into finding her somewhere. She came home with me that evening.
I wasn’t sure how to be a landlady, was I in loco parentis or was she just a lodger? I made us both dinner, thinking of the cosy TV meal I had planned for myself. While it was in the oven I rushed up to Amy’s room and grabbed her personal things and some of the clothes in her wardrobe and stashed everything in Kit’s office that had one been Ben’s bedroom.
Flinty was happy with the room and approved of Amy’s décor. I was thankful I had persuaded Kit last year we should absorb the box room into our bedroom and create an en-suite shower room. Flint was very happy to have exclusive use of the family bathroom.
The next morning we established she would help herself to breakfast, especially as she started work earlier than me. She also assured me that she did not expect me to cook for her and she would ‘sort herself out’.
Over the next few days I realised this meant endless ready meals, mainly eaten in her/Amy’s room. She really wasn’t too much trouble, except for the bin filling up with the ready meal packaging and the washing machine being on when I was in bed. It wasn’t for long, I consoled myself and I only had to call the police once.
I don’t know how the angry ex boyfriend found out where she lived, but she was not pleased to see him, hysterical in fact. The poor neighbours wondered what all the shouting and breaking glass was about and also called the police. We were quite impressed how quickly they turned up. I think old Audrey next door had mentioned guns. The main thing was they took him away and I made coffee for the three of us as the nice woman police officer stayed for a good while. Strangely she had apparently met Flinty before and was surprised I did not know ‘what was going on.’
Flinty retreated to bed as soon as the officer had left. The next morning she sat eating her cereal as if nothing had happened and was soon out the door and off to work.
I checked my phone, not expecting any messages yet from Kit. It was long agreed that I would only hear if there was an emergency when communication was so difficult, so I got a fright when I saw a text message home tonight, broken ankle, don’t worry.
Kit had a charmed life, no harm ever seemed to come to him. At least he wasn’t in hospital and an ankle was hardly the end of the world, but what a time for it to happen. I messaged back to get some idea what time he might arrive, then I had to get myself off to work.
No mention was made of last night’s adventure, if Flinty had told them down in packing, the gossip had not made it upstairs. I got one text from Kit and decided I could just get home before he arrived back.
As I walked up my garden path the front door was flung open, it was not Kit, but Amy.
‘Mum, we’ve had burglars, my room!’
Before I could explain I saw a police car come round the corner followed by a taxi. It was the police woman from last night.
‘Nothing to worry about, this is just a welfare visit.’
Kit was hobbling up the garden path behind her.
Flinty disappeared, she did not return to our house and was never seen at work again. Somehow that made it harder to explain to Kit and Amy what had been going on, when it was as if she had never existed.
The police officer questioned me as if I was hiding her and questioned Amy and Kit as to whether they were involved in ‘all this business.’
Kit questioned Amy as to why on earth she was back so soon. It transpired that she had realised she didn’t like travelling, especially when Lizzie met a chap in the first week and decided to cross the Nullabor Plain with him in his camper van.
It’s bad enough still having your parents as your next of kin when you’re my age, but how will I explain my dreadful situation when they arrive at my hospital bed?
I can’t eat or move much yet and it would be lonely in this isolation room if it weren’t for the constant stream of medical experts coming to peer and probe. Beside me is the incubator containing my tiny identical twin, still attached by the faux umbilical cord that formed out of goodness knows which bits of my insides. Apparently he was well tangled up in my viscera, hence the complicated and dangerous surgery, which I may or may not survive.
At least I am not responsible for him now. My parents, his parents are his official guardians, good luck with that Bro. I was an only child, a surprise, an afterthought, not a good surprise as I overheard mother say to aunty and another time telling a friend they came to parenthood ‘too late in the day’.
Anyway, they need to come into the hospital for a medical, moral and legal discussion about what should happen to Little Bro. Oh no, here they are, what am I going to say, I thought my team would be with them.
‘Oh my God what happened, not that wretched motorbike of yours?’
‘No Mother, I have never had an accident and it’s a moped not a motorbike.’
‘That’s a relief, so what did happen?’
‘There is no easy way to say this. I had a parasitic conjoined twin inside me for years, well all of my life and now he’s in that incubator.’
I pressed the emergency button, my father had fainted when he looked in the Perspex case. Mother had rushed out of the room screaming, causing chaos in the corridor, no doubt staff and visitors alike wondering what was going on. There was even more chaos in my room with the crash team thinking I was the emergency. It must have been in all the confusion that a visitor popped his head round the door and took a few snaps on his phone. That’s how we ended up a social media sensation and headlines on the evening news.
Unfortunately they got the story completely wrong.
BABY USED AS LIVING DONOR TO CURE TERMINALLY ILL MILLIONAIRE
The only positive was that they did not have my name and they could not know Baby Bro’s name, because he had not been given one. That was up to my parents, but they wanted nothing to do with him, especially when it was broached to them at an urgent meeting with the hospital lawyers that the facts should be given to the public to stop the awful speculation that was ruining the hospital’s reputation.
The family court decided they would not be fit parents and it was recommended I should be Bro’s guardian as I was his next of kin.
Baby Bro was now three days old, or the same age as me, opinion was divided. We were still joined, but doctors were worried he was gaining strength and weight, while I was becoming weaker. As Bro could not read or write only I could sign the consent form for the uncertain medical procedure to separate us.
I forced myself to look at him. After all, there was a strong possibility he would not survive. I don’t much like babies anyway, though I always presumed if I had one of my own I might like it. Baby Bro did not look like a baby, he looked just like me only tiny. I was repelled. If he lived, no one knew what would happen, would he grow, did he have a mind? As I grappled with these thoughts he smiled at me. I felt sick, could he read my mind, our mind?
He lived. I was put in a recovery room by myself, a nurse reassured me I could go to the special care unit and see him soon.
Baby Bro was made a ward of court as I was considered not fit to care for him yet. In fact no one was sure how his care should be handled, it was a complex case that must go to the high court. Various groups started gathering outside the hospital, none of them quite sure what they were protesting about.
I was soon fit to leave hospital. I had never felt so well physically, after all, for the first time in my life I was no longer supporting another body. I had been subject to a barrage of tests, my DNA samples given, now I wanted to get on with my life. I was smuggled out of the hospital and returned to my flat, not completely free, I was warned not to leave the local area and advised to keep a low profile, someone had leaked my name.
So here I am, walking down the street, the late afternoon sun behind me, feeling like a normal person. I hope Baby Bro is in good hands, the experts know what they are doing… well there’s nothing I can do until, until what I’m not sure.
Have you ever had that experience when the sun is low in the sky and you think someone is behind you, but it is just the long shadow of a person yards behind. A shadow caught up with me and was beside my shadow on the pavement, identical to my shadow. I turned to look. There was nobody beside me or behind me. I quickened my pace, the shadow kept level alongside my shadow.
We all love Southbourne, but today we’re going to jump on the bus and head for Bournemouth town centre.
What’s happening in the lower gardens?
We’re visiting Bournemouth Writing Festival which is a great festival with loads of things happening all weekend, but we only have time to pop into the poetry hub on the bandstand where you can write a contribution for the community poem or buy a poem from a machine kindly lent by the National Trust.
It’s the sort of article you read in the tabloids or the rabbit hole you fall into when you are tempted to scroll down on the internet. There was a boy at junior school who always had ghoulish ‘true stories’ to tell. I was never sure whether to believe him, but we wanted to and it was a bit dull in class after he moved away.
When I became a sardonic teenager I realised how ridiculous his tales had been, though I would have given him credit for his imagination if we ever met again.
As I turned into a sensible adult a strange thing happened; television documentaries, tiny cameras in operating theatres and Wikipedia provided real true stories. It turned out that there were girls with two heads and boys with four legs. The stuffed two headed lamb we saw in a glass case at the ‘House of Horrors’ on holiday had nothing on real two headed people who talked on television and went to school. Yes, real life could be truly bizarre and nature played jokes.
When I started getting mystery pains, or rather when I could no longer ignore mystery pains and the strange lump I could feel, I went to the doctor. An appointment came through for my scan, can’t remember which machine it was, but it made lots of noise and I did not like being in it. Of course the operator is not allowed to tell you anything and just mumbled something about a report going to my GP. I was just glad to get dressed and get out of there down to the hospital Costa Coffee. I was beginning to relax with my strong coffee and a lemon tart poised towards my mouth when my mobile rang.
‘This is Doctor Jekyll, are you still in the hospital grounds? Good. Have you eaten anything in the past couple of hours?’
Puzzled I put my lemon tart down.
‘Good, now there’s nothing to worry about, but I would like to examine you and possibly do an exploratory operation. As soon as possible. Now. No you don’t need to know where to go, I’m sending someone down to fetch you.’
I didn’t even get a chance to finish my coffee before someone in a uniform appeared and guided me into the depths of the hospital. It was not long before I was undressed and lying on a couch, being prodded and monitors applied. One good thing, I knew I was in good health, heart and everything working properly and fit for surgery. I was just about to ask when the operation was going to take place when the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room with all sorts of tubes attached to me.
Doctor Jekyll was at my side promptly.
‘The good news is, it was not a malignant tumour. The bad news, it was a very complicated operation and the surgery was invasive.’
‘I don’t understand, what did you find?’
‘A baby.’
This would be a shock for most people. It was certainly a shock for me as I am a man.
‘How on earth…are you trying to tell me I’m a hermaphrodite?’
‘We don’t use that term these days, but you are not. Now you have heard of conjoined twins? Yes of course, but have you heard of parasitic twins? So you have seen old drawings and photos of people with partially formed bodies appended to themselves on Beetleypete’s blog… who or what is that? No I’m not a blogger, never heard of WordPress. Now I need you to pay attention. Your parasitic twin just happened to be completely inside you, very unusual and it… he seems to have been having a development spurt, otherwise you would not have noticed.’
‘This is a bit hard to take in, but at least I’m rid of it. How soon can I go home, I’m feeling okay.’
‘That’s all the pain killers, you have had a very serious operation and you will be monitored in intensive care. But we also have an ethical problem. We managed to save the baby.’
‘WHAT! Um what are you going to do with it?’
‘Him… well at the moment he is still attached to you by his, for want of a better word, his umbilical cord. Now do you want to see him before we discuss how to proceed? ‘
I thought of that boy at school, he would have wanted me to look, ready to relate the story to anyone who would listen. Somehow my schoolboy morbid curiosity took over and as instructed by the doctor I turned my head to the other side of the bed and there in an incubator was my baby brother. Or more accurately, if you put a pair of glasses on him he would be an exact miniature replica of me.
Joy had news for our art group, she had her new bus pass… at the age of eighty.
We all had something to say.
About time too, wouldn’t be without mine.
Why did you wait so long. I am looking forward to getting mine, but I’ve got to wait another thirty years.
Are you serious, you have never been on a bus?
‘Unless you count being born on one.’
Our imaginations went into overdrive…
‘At least my mother used to say You must have been born on a bus every time I left a door open.’
Buses have doors these days Joy, the Routemaster has been out of service for twenty years.
Our group varied in age and athletic ability and conversation progressed to discussion of various forms of transport from bicycles to E-scooters and back to cars and buses. Joy was joined at the hip to her car, but it transpired that Joy and the car had both failed their MOT.
‘I didn’t say I was actually going to go on a bus, the bus pass is just in case.’
You must at least have a go.
We all had bus stories, Mandy was expert at manoeuvring her double buggy and six shopping bags on board and I exclaimed how lucky she was to have floors that lowered and space to park. No folding up McClarren buggies for her. Maggie’s bus journey to the hospital to have her baby was equalled by Ron’s travelling from Land’s End to Berwick upon Tweed, using only his bus pass.
The next day I stood at the bus stop with Joy. She had reluctantly agreed to a trial run with moral support. We were at the second stop at the beginning of the route so Joy would be eased gently into the experience. The sunny spring day belied a sharp east wind and I prayed we wouldn’t have to wait long, having told Joy we had two frequent routes to choose from.
‘Why are we going into town, aren’t all the shops closing down?’
‘Not all of them, anyway that’s where the bus goes.’
‘How long do we have to wait?’
‘Not long, look at the bus ap on my phone, you can see the bus coming up the hill.’
Joy peered at my phone screen, failing to see the tiny toy bus shaped arrow moving along the map. We were so busy looking, a bus sailed by before I had a chance to put my hand out.
I always have my bus pass safely in my pocket, ready to produce immediately I’m on board. I hadn’t thought to prepare Joy for the operation. The next bus soon came along, but she spent five minutes fumbling in her handbag for her purse, then five minutes fumbling in her purse for her bus pass. It would have to be that grumpy driver.
I always head straight for the back half of the bus, or better still, upstairs on a double decker, smugly glad I don’t yet have to sit in the front seats with their little signs ‘Please offer these seats to elderly or disabled passengers’. Not actually forbidden so Joy happily plonked herself down in the front seat. I tried to tactfully urge her further back.
‘What was wrong with those seats?’
‘They’re for the elderly and…’
‘How old do you have to be, I’m a pensioner.’
‘But a spritely one, it’s only your eyes that failed the MOT.’
She crossed over the aisle and pulled down a folding seat.
‘The elderly won’t be wanting these ones.’
‘We can’t sit there, that’s the space for wheelchairs and prams.’
‘At least you didn’t make me go upstairs.’
Fortunately the bus soon started filling up with baby buggies, walking sticks and crutches to prove my point.
‘Goodness, how many more walking wounded are coming on board, oh surely she’s not allowed on board with that!’
A lady in a large designer motorised wheelchair/scooter contraption had just about made it up the ramp the driver had put down for her, but it looked as if she was also having her maiden bus trip. Grumpy bus driver set off looking firmly ahead, ignoring the fact that the embarrassed woman was having great trouble manoeuvring into the permitted space. Her face flushed with embarrassment, she pressed buttons and moved a few inches in each direction, ramming a passenger next to the aisle. Her ensuing panic resulted in her being firmly wedged in, preventing anyone getting on or off. I looked across the aisle at the emergency door and back to the window next to Joy, where a sign said In Emergency Break Glass with Hammer. Iwondered where the hammer was.
One passenger did get on and manage to squeeze by, or rather climb over the poor woman. To my horror it was our local ‘character’ Davo. We locals did not need to use the politically incorrect descriptions that came to mind with Davo. Just the mere mention of his name ‘Davo was in the shop’ or ‘Davo came up to our table in the restaurant’ was enough to illicit sympathy and horror.
‘Joy’ I whispered urgently ‘do not look that chap in the eye.’
Unfortunately he started talking in that bellowing voice of his to a young chap behind us, who obviously knew how to wind up Davo for entertainment. That’s when the baby, who had been sleeping peacefully strapped to his mother’s chest, started crying. By this time we had arrived at the stop planned for our disembarking, handy for the few shops in town that hadn’t closed down. It turned out the wheelchair was literally jammed and the driver was radioing his base for help. Luckily it transpired that Davo was an expert at smashing windows and opening emergency doors and the driver couldn’t reach us to stop him.
It was a long way down, but Davo helped us descend, albeit in a rather undignified manner, bellowing ‘Age before beauty’ before assisting the young mum and other passengers.
Once safely on the pavement, Joy tapped into her phone. ‘Thanks goodness my nephew put the local taxi number into my new phone.’
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 