Dear reader...

IT IS THE first weekend in May, and I am in the garden contemplating a jumble of fading daffodil leaves. My instinct is to cut them back; make things neat and tidy. My grandmother used to knot the leaves, creating what looked to me like little groups of green men sitting on the soil. But I know the swelling bulbs beneath need all the energy these waning leaves provide, so I elect to tolerate the straggly mass. I am a spontaneous gardener, constantly reshaping borders and digging up plants to find them a new home: a bigger one to the back; splitting another into smaller clusters. However, my energetic reworking means bulbs often fall victim to my spade. Repeatedly, the familiar aroma of onions wafts from the ground. I have dug up the alliums again. Despite the regular disturbance, they have proved to be robust bulbs, and this constant digging up and replanting has resulted in a natural swathe of purple through the border. To keep it that way, I must label them. I need something that will stand out. Remembering an idea I picked up from a friend’s allotment, I head for the kitchen, returning with a fistful of wooden spoons. I write the name of the bulbs on the bowl end and plunge the handles into the ground. They make an eye-catching feature; the shape of the upturned spoons echoing the construction of the allium flowers. They should be safe from any further disturbance now. I had better do the same for the daffodils...