We were watering this morning until quarter to eleven, so we wouldn't have got it all done last night. At twenty past nine a customer approached me, saying that she knew we didn't open until ten, but was there somebody who could help her with a query about a rose. I told her that I was terribly sorry, but we didn't open until ten, and until then we were fully occupied with the watering, which we had to do given how dry everything was with the wind, but she was very welcome to browse around and look at the roses, as long as she didn't fall over a hose. Her reaction to this refusal to help was restrained, but she looked disappointed and vaguely incredulous, as though her having admitted she knew we weren't open somehow made it alright and entitled her to full service. I don't think she stuck around until ten, and she will probably not like us now, and tell her friends how unhelpful we are, which is sad, but there simply wasn't time to spare. The manager was delayed coming in, there were only two of us working in the plant centre, and the wind strength meant that the only automatic irrigation system we could use was the one covering the trees, as that sprays 45cm above the ground and some of the water does manage to hit the pots before it all blows away. I think it was a strategic error to have opened the gate from the car park.
At twenty to ten the phone went, and the caller wanted advice about Ceanothus. I apologised and asked if I could possibly call her back after ten when we had finished the watering. She was very nice about it, and after that I asked the woman who works in the office if she could field all further calls until we'd finished. I did remember to call back, and ended up recommending 'Puget Blue', which is becoming my standard anwer to all questions about Ceanothus.
The plant centre looked as though a pack of wild dogs had just run through it. In the course of picking things up to water them I managed to water my own feet extremely thoroughly. I should have put my wellingtons on before starting. Instead I changed into them when I'd finished, and put my soaking plimsolls and socks to dry on the dashboard of my car. They were bone dry and toasty by six.
A former colleague at the plant centre, who now works full-time as a garden designer, rushed in wanting evergreens for a client garden. She was in a quandry whether to go for something more unusual, but tender, or whether to stick with Choisya ternata. My advice was that there was no point in risking a dubiously hardy rarity unless the client was going to appreciate what it was. Otherwise, if it lived they wouldn't appreciate its significance, and if it died, they might be upset. Some people, especially those who are not very confident with plants themselves, do take plant deaths extremely personally. The trouble with being a garden designer is that it is like being an architect. You have visions of a creation, but need other people's money to fulfil them. My ex-colleague agreed that this was indeed so, and that she would be planting the Pittosporum tobira 'Nana' for herself and not for her client. She took the Choisya.
At five I started watering again. It was still blowing three quarters of a gale. I hope it is not going to disrupt proceedings at Chelsea, which is where the Systems Administrator and I are going tomorrow. With any luck the wind will have dropped by next Monday, as I am getting heartily fed up with the incessant watering and plants falling over, and it is getting pretty repetitive writing about it.
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