So. Was at the event of the year this weekend. Well of my year anyway. So far. Nice though. Lord and Lady Loverly, Duke and Duchess of Earl or something or other, titled, generous and seriously loaded gave their annual, not-to-be-missed best Joint Birthday Spring Garden Party. Wowee. Packed to the hilt with excellent food, top notch vino and interesting people of all classes… well some classes, mainly elevated, and, to be honets, not many that interesting. Whatever, I’m not quite Kate M but I blagged my way in, as usual, ‘cos B (my friend Beatrice De Jong) knows everyone (went to school with shed-loads of Aristos) and won’t go to any of these dos without me on account of I can always get her home if she’s had one or two too many Pimmses.
So I’m in front of the summer house on the round lawn (The Loverlys have lawns of all shapes and sizes) this one is beautiful, striped and obviously done with a proper big, British mower, and I’m trying very hard to get away from this oik with a cravat and no chin who is busy getting rather unfortunate on vintage Dom Pérignon.
He was seriously invading my no-fly-zone and trying the ‘look at wot I got’ approach, flashing his platinum birthright at me and and had the temerity to be offended when I told him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested in his big pile in Sussex and his 42 inch ride-on or his offer of a free ticket to the Proms this summer, after which he told me I don’t have any culture. Well that’s a lie and I can prove it…
See?
How dare he. Just ‘cos he doesn’t know his Aria from his Elgar. I simply don’t want to stand in the RAH with some Bargain Basement Bertie Wooster and his Putney chums and sing Land Of Hope And Glory in a pair of six inch heels. Concerts were made for sitting at, that’s why they have chairs. Even the orchestra have chairs. If the horn players get to sit, why shouldn’t I take the weight off my Jimmy Choos?
However, the long and short of it is, I ended up being so cross with him, this Monty Don type guy called Angus had to come and rescue me. He warned Lord Snooty off and escorted me away to a sunny patch where we could get acquainted. It turned out Angus is actually a gardener. Lord and Lady Loverly’s gardener in fact. Full-time. Very handsome man, tall, rugged, muscles, dimples, hair in all the right places and eyes you could go for a midnight skinny dip in. Big hands too. You just know he could carry four pints of scrumpy at once and still manage to stroke your poodle with his pinky. So I flashed my baby blues at him and asked him a few questions and he asked me what I do.
The minute he found out I blogged about things horticultural and arboreal (well barely but, you know) he started to get really excited and tell me his plans for the lawns and plots of Loverly Manor. Wow. Really interesting stuff but my goodness he could talk. It was like a chat tsunami. More chat, in fact than Alan Carr Chatty Man, but all in this husky, slightly North Midlands voice. He told me all about scarifying and why it made his lawn look so lush (thank-you very much Tom Kerridge for over-using that word on every Saturday kitchen) I have to admit I was quite entranced by the time he got to telling me about cultivating the kitchen garden and aerating the croquet pitch. He was in the middle of telling me how aerating lets nutrients and fluids into the soil when I spotted B staggering towards the ornamental pond with her Blahniks in her hand and she had obviously had way too many fluids and not enough nutrients so I had to make my excuses and go and be her BFF, but it did make me think. I’ve always taken my lawn for granted. I mean… grass is green isn’t it? A lawn is a lawn? Well no. It seems not! Angus’s seasonal routine of mowing and scarifying and dethatching and rolling and nurturing his sward has made me think again. I’m going to look into buying an Allett with all those cartridges or some such for my next mower.
Oh and yes, before you ask, I did get Angus’s number; just before I noticed the rather lurid smile that passed between him and Lady Betsy Loverly. There was form there. There was ‘a past’. I am not taking on a second hand Mellors for love nor money. He’s very fine but my goodness, not that fine. I won’t be calling. Anyway. I don’t know if I can cope with a man who talks more than I do! See ya! Holly
