Dear Reader, I, me, Tamara of this same Shades of Green, admit it. I am not a gardener. I do not have green thumbs. I confess it! I do not enjoy pottering or growing or nurturing.

I enjoy reclining in the sunlounger like a middle-class Victorian lady, wrapped in a blanket, reading my book and taking selfies.

Like so.

This time spent in the garden and not gardening is occasionally broken up by doing photoshoots of my hateful, beloved cat.

Like so.

and so.

and so on. I am sooooo tempted to do another reel of cat photos. Keep reading and I may put some bonus photos at the end! Hah, I know how to keep ’em keen!

Given my leisurely garden pastimes, what was I thinking by attempting some actual growing of some actual plants? Perhaps it was jealous-inspo of my Bristol friend who has made a pond in her garden from scratch.

Like so.

Or perhaps the blame can be placed squarely on the shoulders of my delightful and more local-than-Bristol-aka-Pompey friend and fellow Green Partier, Tracey.

Tracey, henceforth and hereby declared She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, had the absolute gall to drop by some seedlings because she had too many. This intrusion into my peaceful domicile included rocket, lettuce and honeywort.

For context – this is the current status of the siblings of my seedlings, belonging to She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named’s

I started off with the optimism of one who has forgotten their past failures. Planting something – it was even one of Emma and my tips on How to Cope with the Covid-19 Lockdown in Green-ish Style. What sweet, naive fools we were.

So full of optimisim and hope.

I diligently watered them. Even added homemade cloches, on the advice of She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

Then this happened.

An entire pot of lettuce seedlings disappeared overnight. What happened? Were they eaten? Went to visit their aunt? Did I overwater them? I don’t know. It is forever a mystery. But it’s okay. I still have more lettuce and rocket.

Until I didn’t.

My last batch of lettuce also disappeared into the night. No worries! I still have my rocket. I even planted them out in fresh compost. There is hope.

Dear Reader, I present to you – my pièce de résistance

Wait for it…..

Boom!

I present to you white spider-web like mould.

Mould.

WTF.

Ewww and Shudder.

I wailed in disgust. How is this possible that even under the safe confines of cloches, the rocket rotted away? I bemoaned my failure for a full week straight.

Weirdly, the wildflowers are growing. But as they reside in the mouldy graveyard and I am still grossed out by that, I can take no joy in their shadowy existence.

These wildflowers in their mouldy home.

So now, I have one man standing. My honeywort. My precious. Living in the relative safety of my window-sill, I check it twice a day, water it with filtered water and tenderly stroke it’s wonky baby leaves.

Tamara’s precious.

I await its imminent demise.


Congratulations! You have reached the end of this epic, cautionary tale, and so you shall be rewarded with a collage of photos of a cat you do not know.

You are welcome.

Written by Tamara, a Green Hairy Feminist