Some of the predictions came true. Watering my trousers probably doesn't count, as I always end up watering them, and I could have done it on purpose. Three separate sets of would-be garden visitors wanted free entry because they were RHS members, and on being told that sadly the concession did not apply on Sundays one said crossly (and incorrectly) that it didn't say so in the handbook. Somebody wanted to buy a terracotta trough that had lost its price, and was the only one of that design. With the customer's agreement a colleague and I invented a price, based on another planter of similar size. We went for three quid under the marked price, on the basis that the one with no label was older stock, and the punter was content. We didn't actually run completely out of pound coins, but were low on them, and towards close of play I had to make up six pounds in change mostly from 50p coins, after having to juggle five pound notes between tills earlier in the day.
The dog absconded, or at least we heard the owners' son shouting her name for quite a long time in the garden, before seeing him marching back towards the house with the dog firmly clasped under one arm. After we had all gone home she disgraced herself by rolling in some fox shit. The owner couldn't face bathing her last night, and the dog spend the night locked in a cage in the kitchen. This morning their son was prevailed on to give her a bath, and the owner said that all her bedding would have to go through the washing machine. It may be one of the things that distinguishes a true countrywoman from a townie, that the former considers it entirely normal to put fox crap encrusted dog blankets through the same washing machine she uses for the family's laundry. The latter probably doesn't.
The manager returned from his holiday, which was apparently very nice. It was a pity that after half an hour of watering we lost pressure, and that the reason turned out to be that the tank was empty. I fear this confirmed his view that we are a rather hopeless lot requiring constant supervision. I have no idea why the tank failed to fill overnight, as it had been working perfectly well all the time he was away. Once he restarted the pump that takes water from the pond in the garden, and connected the top up hose from the outside tap, the tank began to fill remarkably quickly, and we were soon watering again, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Psychological research does show that the beneficial effects of a holiday only last for a week or two. I fear the manager may fall into the one week category.
The hose that was leaking and that the gardener mended before sprang another leak, and now has two jubilee clips holding the bits together. My colleague worked out why it kept perforating (or at least formulated a good working hypothesis) which was that given something on the polytunnel door had come loose or undone, exposing a sharp piece of metal on the underside of the door, the hose could be getting caught under the door and ripped while watering in the tunnel.
Our misdemeanours in the plant centre were dwarfed by that of the younger gardener, who unfortunately let the tractor run out of oil. An engineer arrived in a van, and spent the afternoon working on it, and I fear that the bill for repairs is going to be a hefty one. The gardener works very hard and is generally good at his job, and that was an unlucky way to get caught out. Deprived of their tractor the gardeners did at least have the digger to play with, and the list of plants to be removed grew beyond just the infected stumps, as the boss began to consider which shrubs and bits of hedge might not be garden worthy. There is something rather intoxicating about having a digger on the premises. You can make so many changes so quickly.
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