Day Two: The Greenhouse Trials and Lawn of Peril

Today I learned two things: geraniums are divas, and edging shears are basically guillotines for toes.”

Day Three: The Greenhouse Trials and Lawn of Peril

This morning began with Dennis—the undisputed emperor of the glasshouses—summoning me like a lowly serf. At his side was a man introduced as Ginger. (I’m fairly sure his birth certificate says “Richard,” but when you’ve been christened by your hair colour, resistance is futile.)

Ginger whisked me into one of the greenhouses at a pace that suggested he was late for a train only he could see. Before I knew it, I was facing a bench lined with geraniums, looking at me like a jury waiting to deliver a verdict. My mission: remove the dead leaves, return each plant to its spot, and then water them. But—crucially—not too much. Apparently, geraniums have delicate constitutions, and over watering them is the horticultural equivalent of serving soup in a colander.

Thankfully Ginger demonstrated the correct technique on a couple of plants before dashing off (at speed, naturally). Left alone, I began carefully plucking the deceased leaves, murmuring apologies to the plants like some kind of botanical undertaker. When it came to the watering, I measured each drop as though I were administering medicine to royalty. No drowning's occurred on my watch. Victory.

After the 10 a.m. tea break (which is rapidly becoming the highlight of my mornings), I found myself loitering like a spare wheel while everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do. Enter George, foreman of the pleasure grounds, who took pity on my sheepish hovering and reassigned me to my old comrade: Ian.

Together, we tackled the smaller lawns, the ones too dainty for the big mowers. Ian manned the mower like a seasoned gladiator, while I was handed a pair of edging shears and told—very seriously—not to amputate my toes. Excellent. Nothing like mild threat of self-mutilation to sharpen one’s focus.

Toe Pruners.

My tasks included:

* Snipping the grass edges with all the precision of a nervous surgeon.

* Sweeping gravel back onto the paths like an underpaid chimney sweep.

* Holding back drooping plants so they didn’t get scalped by Ian’s mower (a job which made me feel like a heroic human shield).

The sun shone, the air smelled faintly of cut grass, and there were no unexpected discoveries of abandoned trousers. By the end, I was sweaty, a little unsure if I’d done anything right, but—miraculously—happy.

Tomorrow? Rumour has it I’ll be trusted with a wheelbarrow of my very own. Given my track record with balance, this could either be a triumph… or slapstick waiting to happen. Stay tuned. 🌱✂️🚜