Laura Boyd My Good Life dream could all come a cropper
WE are in. We moved house and despite still being surrounded by boxes and barely being able to locate a clean pair of knickers, we’re here. And I love it, which is just as well as I am never, ever moving house again.
Now, can you help settle a domestic debate, please?
Lurking at the bottom of our garden is a greenhouse. I have grand ideas of getting my Charlie Dimmock on (albeit with a bra and far less impressive cleavage), rolling up my sleeves and growing all manner of fruit and veg to feed my family. A new, wholesome, domesticated me.
I’ve ordered Alan Titchmarsh’s greenhouse gardening book, some snazzy looking pink gardening gloves and a knee pad because apparently that’s a thing, and I’m raring to go.
Now all I need is a trip to Dobbies to stock up on potato-growing sacks, seeds and strawberry plants and the likes and I’ll be raring to go.
Except my husband has other ideas. He thinks this new-found gardening goddess me is just a phase and that within a few months some sad looking plants will be left to fester in the greenhouse and he’ll be left to clean up the mess.
He thinks we should get the thing on Gumtree and pack it off to a loving home. How dare he!
I mean, fair enough in that I can barely remember to water any house plants we have around but this is different. New house, new me.
Think the Good Life – me as Felicity Kendal in dungarees and a head scarf, serving up Sunday dinner with mash grown by my own fair
Fair enough, I barely remember to water any house plants but new house, new me
hands. The dream. But will the reality be a nightmare?
I need advice from some green-fingered readers. Am I being realistic or is the upkeep of greenhouse growing just beyond my time and concentration span?
Get in touch and let me know whether we should save the greenhouse or, in the words of Elsa, let it go to someone with more time to enjoy it. In the meantime, you’ll find me pottering about in there, driving Steven potty.