The warmer weather is bringing the customers back like migrating birds. Some are regular visitors to the plant centre, commonly seen any time between spring and autumn. Others are new sightings. Some have made their way purposely to us in search of a particular plant, while others have the air of having just blown in and landed at random. We greet the familiar faces, and try to be nice to all of them.
New plants are starting to arrive in quantities too. The choice of herbaceous plants at this stage seems arbitrary. We've suddenly got the full gamut of hollyhocks, some lupins, a few achillea, and for some reason Centaurea montana and Hesperis matronalis. Delightful cottage garden plants, the last two, but scarcely the first names that would spring to mind if putting together a core range. The glasshouse-fresh foliage, so different to the winter-burned leaves on plants growing outside, is designed to tempt. Why else have a choice of half a dozen dwarf pinks, which won't start flowering for at least another month? Pots of Fritillaria meleagris, brought on under cover, are blooming weeks ahead of the ones in the garden. Bread-and-butter shrubs are starting to arrive too, variegated forms of Pittosporum tenuifolium and pyracantha. To a plant enthusiast they are not nearly so fascinating as the twigs that came in last week, but they score far more highly as eye candy.
We had to do some watering, outside as well as in the tunnels. We are out of practice after the winter break, hoses not in the right place, routes round the plant centre not honed to a precise routine. It takes a few days to learn to split the watering with a new team member. Initially you find dry patches that each person thought the other had done or would do, then with practice you develop the unspoken understanding that is a mark of all good teams, and everybody knows what the others are going to do without any need for discussion.
The manager had got us moving some of the shrubs that have over-wintered in the shelter of the tunnels back outside. We weren't too sure how cold he was expecting it to be tonight, as he'd also left instructions for us to wind down the tunnel sides, tuck fleece over the agapanthus and turn off the pump and the water tank at the end of the day. Turning off the irrigation fell to me, the other two saying they didn't know what we were supposed to be doing, so I hope I have clunked the correct lever and turned the right stop-cock, not being mechanically minded.
There were a couple of mystery plants to identify from samples. One looked like an alder of some sort, but not the common one, unless it was from a specimen that was doing far better than any of mine. The other looked more like some kind of Genista than anything else I could think of, though I was puzzled that the people asking had never noticed it flower. They await the manager's verdict on Monday morning, as does the almost-but-not-quite dead Hydrangea quercifolia, that has gone backwards for two and a half years. I wonder if two fierce winters separated by a drought sapped its will to live. All will be revealed on Monday.
The sun shone and the birds sang. Somebody brought in a gigantic and amiable black dog called Max, who wanted to smell everything, and thought that his owner's views on where she wanted to go need only have a very loose influence on his own progress. At home Max likes to sit on the sofa. She had to buy a second sofa. If you like plants and people watching then an up-market plant centre is an entertaining place to be, in the spring.
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Saturday, 25 February 2012
Friday, 17 February 2012
a day at the races
We went racing at Fakenham today. It's something we'd been talking about for ages, going to a small course where I could see the horses close up, and stand down by the rails and hear the thunder of hooves as they go over a fence, but we'd never got round to it. Finally today was the day.
It's years since I went to the races at all, and I wasn't sure what to expect. It turns out that Fakenham is a sweet little racecourse. The Systems Administrator, who takes racing seriously, got us our orange day member passes, which entitled us to use the members' end of the little stand, and use the bar in the small but perfectly formed members' pavilion. Admittedly the other end of the stand was open to non-members, but the bar was jolly nice, with a view down on to the finishing line and across the course, and heating. (The heating probably made all the difference, as I'm typing this after spending two hours in the warm car on the way back and I'm still cold).
The first race wasn't until 1.30pm, and we arrived before then, having allowed for traffic which turned out not to need that much allowing for. We saw the last heats of some greyhound racing, and then there was a parade by the West Norfolk Foxhounds and the North Norfolk Harriers. The harriers were some sort of small hound that came in subdued shades of magnolia rather than white and tan, very tasteful, and apparently they are one of only seven packs in the world. The huntsmen wore coloured coats and blew their horns, and tipped their hats to various eminent local ladies whom they addressed as 'Ma'am', and I thought that is really why so many urban politicians hate fox-hunting. It isn't purely indignation about the sufferings of the fox, otherwise they'd make an equal amount of fuss about intensive farming. It's a class thing. Oh well. The hounds were very well behaved, and the huntsmen must have had faith in their good nature, because members of the public were invited on to the course to meet them.
Then there were the races. I understand nothing about racing, except that all the races were won by a horse. In fact, the last race we stayed for was won by a mare, and I was pleased to see a female getting a look-in. The horses were very beautiful, and none of the jockeys fell off, and the green screens never had to go up, which is my definition of a successful race meeting. We went down and stood by the parade ring and admired them at close quarters, and stood by the rails to hear them thundering past and watch them jump, and stood in the stand where we had a view to the far side of the course, and inside the bar where we had a view and heating. It was vibrant but not too crowded. In fact, it was a perfect sporting event, from the viewpoint of somebody who isn't interested in sport.
I began to get my ear in for the commentary. It is much less waffly and more precise than I'd realised, with its own phrases that carry specific meanings. Some horses were said to be 'not travelling', which sounds contradictory when they are galloping, but means not running freely and easily. Likewise one was said to be 'ridden along', which again sounds silly, when it's got a jockey on its back who is riding it, but means that the horse is not running well and the jockey is using arms and legs to urge it on.
The Systems Administrator placed a couple of modest bets, working on the theory that there had to be a reason why Jonjo O'Neill had sent two John P McManus horses to run at Fakenham. The theory turned out not to work. I don't know why the SA expected it to work, given that long days of this winter's successive colds were largely spent building enormous spreadsheets of racing results, and testing theories of betting, none of which worked. Using the best theories the punter ends up about 5% down, which is what I'd expect. Bookies make a living, don't you know. But it's the taking part that counts.
There were lots of dogs, on leads. The programme had a note saying that Fakenham was one of the few UK courses that allowed dogs into the enclosures, and would owners please keep their dogs on leads, as there had been an incident in the past when a dog ran on to the course during a race, and if it happened again dogs would have to be banned (well, the programme said the Racecourse Management would be forced to consider banning them, but I can't imagine the decision would go the other way). The dogs all seemed to be enjoying themselves very much, bouncing up and down at the other dogs, and sniffing them, and watching the hounds. I find that dogs add greatly to the atmosphere of country events, and am all in favour of them.
The final of the greyhound race was won by a lady dog, by a very short head. The final of the whippets and lurchers race was a shambles, as after a promising start one of the contestants started barging the other off the course, and they stopped half way to the finishing line and had a friendly wrestling match instead of a race. The person doing the commentary with great decisiveness awarded first prize to the dog in the red collar, on the grounds that it had got further before stopping.
The Queen had two winners, although I don't think she was there in person to see them. My favourite winner was the mare, partly because she struck a blow for equal rights, and because she was bred, owned and trained by the same person. They'll be having a real celebration tonight. When you own lots of horses, like the Queen or John P McManus, and don't have a hands-on role in their careers, it can't be quite the same when they win.
We skipped the last two races, which were a hunter race with only three runners and a flat race, and managed most of the drive home in the light. Two hours exactly. I recommend Fakenham racecourse, if you like country days out, even if you aren't fussed about racing.
It's years since I went to the races at all, and I wasn't sure what to expect. It turns out that Fakenham is a sweet little racecourse. The Systems Administrator, who takes racing seriously, got us our orange day member passes, which entitled us to use the members' end of the little stand, and use the bar in the small but perfectly formed members' pavilion. Admittedly the other end of the stand was open to non-members, but the bar was jolly nice, with a view down on to the finishing line and across the course, and heating. (The heating probably made all the difference, as I'm typing this after spending two hours in the warm car on the way back and I'm still cold).
The first race wasn't until 1.30pm, and we arrived before then, having allowed for traffic which turned out not to need that much allowing for. We saw the last heats of some greyhound racing, and then there was a parade by the West Norfolk Foxhounds and the North Norfolk Harriers. The harriers were some sort of small hound that came in subdued shades of magnolia rather than white and tan, very tasteful, and apparently they are one of only seven packs in the world. The huntsmen wore coloured coats and blew their horns, and tipped their hats to various eminent local ladies whom they addressed as 'Ma'am', and I thought that is really why so many urban politicians hate fox-hunting. It isn't purely indignation about the sufferings of the fox, otherwise they'd make an equal amount of fuss about intensive farming. It's a class thing. Oh well. The hounds were very well behaved, and the huntsmen must have had faith in their good nature, because members of the public were invited on to the course to meet them.
Then there were the races. I understand nothing about racing, except that all the races were won by a horse. In fact, the last race we stayed for was won by a mare, and I was pleased to see a female getting a look-in. The horses were very beautiful, and none of the jockeys fell off, and the green screens never had to go up, which is my definition of a successful race meeting. We went down and stood by the parade ring and admired them at close quarters, and stood by the rails to hear them thundering past and watch them jump, and stood in the stand where we had a view to the far side of the course, and inside the bar where we had a view and heating. It was vibrant but not too crowded. In fact, it was a perfect sporting event, from the viewpoint of somebody who isn't interested in sport.
I began to get my ear in for the commentary. It is much less waffly and more precise than I'd realised, with its own phrases that carry specific meanings. Some horses were said to be 'not travelling', which sounds contradictory when they are galloping, but means not running freely and easily. Likewise one was said to be 'ridden along', which again sounds silly, when it's got a jockey on its back who is riding it, but means that the horse is not running well and the jockey is using arms and legs to urge it on.
The Systems Administrator placed a couple of modest bets, working on the theory that there had to be a reason why Jonjo O'Neill had sent two John P McManus horses to run at Fakenham. The theory turned out not to work. I don't know why the SA expected it to work, given that long days of this winter's successive colds were largely spent building enormous spreadsheets of racing results, and testing theories of betting, none of which worked. Using the best theories the punter ends up about 5% down, which is what I'd expect. Bookies make a living, don't you know. But it's the taking part that counts.
There were lots of dogs, on leads. The programme had a note saying that Fakenham was one of the few UK courses that allowed dogs into the enclosures, and would owners please keep their dogs on leads, as there had been an incident in the past when a dog ran on to the course during a race, and if it happened again dogs would have to be banned (well, the programme said the Racecourse Management would be forced to consider banning them, but I can't imagine the decision would go the other way). The dogs all seemed to be enjoying themselves very much, bouncing up and down at the other dogs, and sniffing them, and watching the hounds. I find that dogs add greatly to the atmosphere of country events, and am all in favour of them.
The final of the greyhound race was won by a lady dog, by a very short head. The final of the whippets and lurchers race was a shambles, as after a promising start one of the contestants started barging the other off the course, and they stopped half way to the finishing line and had a friendly wrestling match instead of a race. The person doing the commentary with great decisiveness awarded first prize to the dog in the red collar, on the grounds that it had got further before stopping.
The Queen had two winners, although I don't think she was there in person to see them. My favourite winner was the mare, partly because she struck a blow for equal rights, and because she was bred, owned and trained by the same person. They'll be having a real celebration tonight. When you own lots of horses, like the Queen or John P McManus, and don't have a hands-on role in their careers, it can't be quite the same when they win.
We skipped the last two races, which were a hunter race with only three runners and a flat race, and managed most of the drive home in the light. Two hours exactly. I recommend Fakenham racecourse, if you like country days out, even if you aren't fussed about racing.
Sunday, 22 January 2012
a short walk on the Orwell
I went to Pinmill this afternoon. I hadn't been there for a long while. It is a ridiculously pretty village on the river Orwell, reached down a narrow lane in a valley that feels more West Country than East Anglia. Quaint cottages sit higgledy piggledy along the road, including Alma Cottage, setting of the start of Arthur Ransome's We didn't Mean to Go to Sea. The hard is broad and wide, with wooden scrubbing posts, and assorted traditional boats, which were sitting upright on the mud as it was no more than half tide. At high tide the water laps the walls of the famous pub, the Butt and Oyster. It's an historic pub, full of beams and panelling, and also mentioned by Ransome, and is a pleasant place to sit, especially if you can get a window seat with a view out over the river, though I see it is not in the 2012 Camra guide. However, I was not there for the pub, but for a Sunday afternoon walk with a friend.
Parking in Pinmill was unexpectedly tight, for a winter's day, and the two cars ahead of us bagged the last two spaces in the town car park. I thought I was going to have to squeeze in next to somebody's hedge on the lane, then got lucky as someone vacated a place in a little enclave just off the road, that had other cars parked in it and didn't seem to be a passing space or part of anyone's garden. Life for car owners in Pinmill must be difficult, especially in the warmer weather when the tourists flock in. It looks as though it would be a challenge for them to find spaces to park themselves, let alone for their guests if they want to hold a party.
We set off upstream, armed with a map the Systems Administrator had printed off the computer for me. Normally the SA is in charge of walks, and I just tag along, so I felt a vague burden of responsibility, although as we were only going up the river and not venturing on to the high fells there wasn't that much that could go wrong. We passed some cottages that seemed worrying close to sea level, though very quaint and boasting (do houses still boast in estate agents' details?) lovely river views. The river was almost empty of boats, in contrast to the summer when nearly every mooring buoy is occupied, and a strong breeze was churning the water to a grey chop. Birds sat out on the mud, and we gazed at them with vague benevolence. A tidy houseboat, sitting so high on the marsh that it must have been floated on during a big spring tide, had a notice outside saying it was available as a holiday let. It would be a beautiful and atmospheric place to stay, if you didn't mind carrying your luggage half a mile across fields.
The riverside path after a while seemed to lead us into the river, and we decided that the path lay further inland inside a little patch of woodland. We soon came to the Cat House, a brick built grade II listed Gothick cottage near the riverfront at Woolverstone. The name refers to the story that in smuggling days of old the owner used to put a cat in the window to show when the coast was clear of revenue men. I always assumed it was a china cat, but according to Wikipedia it was his pet cat which he had stuffed when it died. The view of the Cat House is rather obscured by Woolverstone Marina and the Royal Harwich Yacht Club, and their associated shore based litter of boat hoists, parked day boats and dinghy racks.
The marina enjoys (do houses still enjoy?) a highly scenic position, and rapid access to the open river, but offers limited protection, as the pontoons simply sit along the edge of the channel. In today's wind they were bouncing up and down a lot, and the few boats still in the water were rolling with them. Conditions on board would be uncomfortable, and there's always the risk that a boat will roll on to the edge of the pontoon and smash its stanchions. There is the possibility of passing marine traffic ploughing into the outside pontoons. We kept a boat there at one time, but not any more.
Despite the map I couldn't pick up the path that would have taken us back into the wooded environs of Woolverstone Park, and we walked up the road from the marina, until we came within sight of the church that lay on our return route. Or at least, our return route assuming that we were turning round at that point. The SA had printed off more map for me than that, and spoken encouragingly about how we could go up to Freston Tower. This is a handsome sixteenth century six storey brick tower, whose original purpose is a complete mystery. Nowadays it is owned by the Landmark Trust, so you could go on holiday there if you wanted a holiday on the banks of the Orwell and didn't fancy a houseboat with no road access. We didn't make it that far, since the afternoon's walk was supposed to be a nice chat with added views, not a route march. We did stop to look at the church of St Michael, Woolverstone, but it was locked, so we admired the clipped yews leading to the door, and the porch with its unusual chequerboard floor of slate laid on edge, but couldn't see inside.
Our route back took us along the edge of a field, and was clearly a popular local route for dog walkers. One elderly and stout black labrador had got three good long sticks jammed into its jaws, and looked thoroughly pleased with itself, tail wagging wildly. Black labs seem a favoured breed in this part of Suffolk. We met lots, and most stopped to say hello. Only a great grey curly coated lurcher type slunk past us, eyeing us shyly, and a jack russell was too excited running up and down to stop.
As we were about to drop down the side of a small wood back to the river, a buzzard appeared from the trees, and was soon joined by another. They circled closer to us than buzzards usually come, and we watched for several minutes as they flapped lazily over the fields, until they dwindled to small distant dots. My companion managed to get a proper look at them through binoculars. I can never see anything through binoculars, so I didn't take up her offer to have a go. It used to be the case that there weren't any buzzards in the Eastern counties, and if you thought you had seen one you had made a mistake, but they have been steadily re-establishing themselves on this side of the country, and are no longer a rare sighting. They will take pheasant poults, so gamekeepers don't like them.
By the SA's standards it was rather a small walk. I don't think it was nearly far enough to offset the piece of homemade fruit cake I ate afterwards, but it was a very nice afternoon.
Parking in Pinmill was unexpectedly tight, for a winter's day, and the two cars ahead of us bagged the last two spaces in the town car park. I thought I was going to have to squeeze in next to somebody's hedge on the lane, then got lucky as someone vacated a place in a little enclave just off the road, that had other cars parked in it and didn't seem to be a passing space or part of anyone's garden. Life for car owners in Pinmill must be difficult, especially in the warmer weather when the tourists flock in. It looks as though it would be a challenge for them to find spaces to park themselves, let alone for their guests if they want to hold a party.
We set off upstream, armed with a map the Systems Administrator had printed off the computer for me. Normally the SA is in charge of walks, and I just tag along, so I felt a vague burden of responsibility, although as we were only going up the river and not venturing on to the high fells there wasn't that much that could go wrong. We passed some cottages that seemed worrying close to sea level, though very quaint and boasting (do houses still boast in estate agents' details?) lovely river views. The river was almost empty of boats, in contrast to the summer when nearly every mooring buoy is occupied, and a strong breeze was churning the water to a grey chop. Birds sat out on the mud, and we gazed at them with vague benevolence. A tidy houseboat, sitting so high on the marsh that it must have been floated on during a big spring tide, had a notice outside saying it was available as a holiday let. It would be a beautiful and atmospheric place to stay, if you didn't mind carrying your luggage half a mile across fields.
The riverside path after a while seemed to lead us into the river, and we decided that the path lay further inland inside a little patch of woodland. We soon came to the Cat House, a brick built grade II listed Gothick cottage near the riverfront at Woolverstone. The name refers to the story that in smuggling days of old the owner used to put a cat in the window to show when the coast was clear of revenue men. I always assumed it was a china cat, but according to Wikipedia it was his pet cat which he had stuffed when it died. The view of the Cat House is rather obscured by Woolverstone Marina and the Royal Harwich Yacht Club, and their associated shore based litter of boat hoists, parked day boats and dinghy racks.
The marina enjoys (do houses still enjoy?) a highly scenic position, and rapid access to the open river, but offers limited protection, as the pontoons simply sit along the edge of the channel. In today's wind they were bouncing up and down a lot, and the few boats still in the water were rolling with them. Conditions on board would be uncomfortable, and there's always the risk that a boat will roll on to the edge of the pontoon and smash its stanchions. There is the possibility of passing marine traffic ploughing into the outside pontoons. We kept a boat there at one time, but not any more.
Despite the map I couldn't pick up the path that would have taken us back into the wooded environs of Woolverstone Park, and we walked up the road from the marina, until we came within sight of the church that lay on our return route. Or at least, our return route assuming that we were turning round at that point. The SA had printed off more map for me than that, and spoken encouragingly about how we could go up to Freston Tower. This is a handsome sixteenth century six storey brick tower, whose original purpose is a complete mystery. Nowadays it is owned by the Landmark Trust, so you could go on holiday there if you wanted a holiday on the banks of the Orwell and didn't fancy a houseboat with no road access. We didn't make it that far, since the afternoon's walk was supposed to be a nice chat with added views, not a route march. We did stop to look at the church of St Michael, Woolverstone, but it was locked, so we admired the clipped yews leading to the door, and the porch with its unusual chequerboard floor of slate laid on edge, but couldn't see inside.
Our route back took us along the edge of a field, and was clearly a popular local route for dog walkers. One elderly and stout black labrador had got three good long sticks jammed into its jaws, and looked thoroughly pleased with itself, tail wagging wildly. Black labs seem a favoured breed in this part of Suffolk. We met lots, and most stopped to say hello. Only a great grey curly coated lurcher type slunk past us, eyeing us shyly, and a jack russell was too excited running up and down to stop.
As we were about to drop down the side of a small wood back to the river, a buzzard appeared from the trees, and was soon joined by another. They circled closer to us than buzzards usually come, and we watched for several minutes as they flapped lazily over the fields, until they dwindled to small distant dots. My companion managed to get a proper look at them through binoculars. I can never see anything through binoculars, so I didn't take up her offer to have a go. It used to be the case that there weren't any buzzards in the Eastern counties, and if you thought you had seen one you had made a mistake, but they have been steadily re-establishing themselves on this side of the country, and are no longer a rare sighting. They will take pheasant poults, so gamekeepers don't like them.
By the SA's standards it was rather a small walk. I don't think it was nearly far enough to offset the piece of homemade fruit cake I ate afterwards, but it was a very nice afternoon.
Sunday, 4 December 2011
a considerable improvement
What a difference a day makes. Today's customers were all perfectly polite and reasonable people. Some of them were rather jolly. The most cheerful of all were an elderly couple from north Norfolk. She was bent almost through ninety degrees with some, presumably age-related, spinal problem, but her appetite for life and looking at plants appeared undiminished. They were accompanied by two friendly dogs, which had not appreciated the drive from Norfolk, especially the delays on the A14, and now wanted to trundle about and smell as many interesting things as possible to alleviate the tedium of their day so far. They were on extendable leads, of which they took full advantage. One of them managed to wind its lead 360 degrees around my legs and a pillar in the shop. The couple bought three trees, including a birch that was tall by our standards, and I was not entirely sure how I was going to get them into their car, but given they'd come all the way from Norfolk we agreed we'd find a way. They opted to have the branches at the front end, so as to leave room for the wife's legs in the passenger footwell, which seemed the right choice given the state of her spine, and I was able to tie the branches of the birch together with string so that the husband didn't have to drive home with birch twigs covering half the windscreen. One of the other trees was a ferociously spiny Crataegus, and I was worried about the dogs, which were going to have to share the back of the car with it. The owners were far more sanguine, saying that they were sensible dogs and would keep clear. The wife told me that in her younger days she had driven down the A12 with nine trees crammed into a Mini, branches poking out of every window.
Another couple had driven all the way from Sussex to collect half a dozen Pyrus calleryana 'Chanticleer'. This is a handsome ornamental pear, making a fairly upright tree if left to its own devices, and carrying white flowers in spring and splendid leaf colours in autumn. The species is from north America, though I have read accounts of planning officers whose dogmatic enthusiasm for native plants outstripped their plant knowledge, allowing planning applicants to plant 'Chanticleer', the Chaucerian name deceiving them into thinking that it must be an English tree.
A young girl called in to collect a Cedrus libani that she had been patiently waiting months for. She was amazed that I could remember her name and what plant she had come to collect, so I didn't explain that this was partly because so few of our customers are under 35. Actually, I doubt she's more than 30. She has a beautiful smile, always looks cheerful, and is rather pretty, which are other reasons to remember her. She is a florist, and wants the tree to supply greenery for flower arrangements, though she'll have to wait a few years before she can start harvesting, given that at the moment it's barely 45cm tall.
Everybody I rang to tell them that plants had now arrived that they had asked for, sometimes months ago, was either really pleased to be called because they still wanted the plant, or at least didn't mind being called. A couple wanted time to think about whether they did still want the plant, which is fair enough but pushing the envelope of our information management system to the limit. A colleague rang someone who'd been after Rubus odoratus, and they were with us that same afternoon. It is disheartening when everyone you call has found the plant elsewhere, or substituted something else. One woman I spoke to couldn't remember ordering a Ptelea trifoliata, or even remember what the plant was and what it did, but once I'd described it she said she'd have it anyway. She must have a large garden, to be able spontaneously to fit in a 7m tall shrub. Ptelea trifoliata is the hop tree, a pretty thing with greenish, hop-like scented flowers, and interesting fruits. I have one myself I grew from seed, though it is not very happy in the lean sand along the edge of the wood, and I really ought to keep it free of weeds and generously mulched with mushroom compost to try and persuade it to grow a bit faster.
The owner rang the rude woman with the dead tree yesterday evening, and pacified her, though not to the extent of promising to replace the tree until the manager had seen it. Faced with the choice between angering high spending customers and becoming a soft touch for giving out replacements, she came down on the side of firmness, but got her call in early, before the woman could go out that evening and blacken our reputation over the dinner tables of Suffolk. Apparently she took the line that I could not have been expected to know that the customer had spent a lot of money, and explained our returns policy. I tried to do that, but people like yesterday's awful woman probably listen harder when they are speaking to someone they identify as People Like Us, and not a shop assistant they have written off as a social inferior. It remains to be seen whether the manager gives her a new tree anyway, even if he thinks the old one failed due to poor cultivation, and not through any fault of ours. I wouldn't be surprised if he does, as a 'goodwill gesture'. Pish to goodwill. I've spent more than £500 with the Whichford Pottery in the past year, but I wouldn't expect a free replacement if I was stupid enough to break one of their pots shortly after purchase.
The owners were interviewing a shortlisted candidate for the plant centre job, and introduced him to those staff who were around. He currently works in a garden centre, and would like to improve his plant knowledge, which he would certainly do working with us. He told us some hair raising stories about their customers. They get people bringing back dead plants bought from other nurseries and trying to claim a refund, even to the point of swiping labels from the stock in that garden centre and putting them on the plants from elsewhere. Staff can spot this when it isn't the right label for that style or size of pot or plant. Allegedly, some customers will even damage plants of the same variety as the ones they are buying, leave them there on the garden centre bed, then come back ten days later, pick up the wilted plants, and present them at the till with their receipt, claiming these are the ones they bought, as a scam to get free extras. Thinking about it afterwards I wondered how the garden centre staff knew that was what customers were doing, and if it happened regularly or only the once. I don't think most of our customers are that devious. Loud shouty sense of entitlement is more their style.
I told the Systems Administrator about the awful woman with the dead tree, who said that she was probably married to the sort of person the SA used to work for. 'Dickhead fund manager working in Fixed Interest' was the exact phrase.
Another couple had driven all the way from Sussex to collect half a dozen Pyrus calleryana 'Chanticleer'. This is a handsome ornamental pear, making a fairly upright tree if left to its own devices, and carrying white flowers in spring and splendid leaf colours in autumn. The species is from north America, though I have read accounts of planning officers whose dogmatic enthusiasm for native plants outstripped their plant knowledge, allowing planning applicants to plant 'Chanticleer', the Chaucerian name deceiving them into thinking that it must be an English tree.
A young girl called in to collect a Cedrus libani that she had been patiently waiting months for. She was amazed that I could remember her name and what plant she had come to collect, so I didn't explain that this was partly because so few of our customers are under 35. Actually, I doubt she's more than 30. She has a beautiful smile, always looks cheerful, and is rather pretty, which are other reasons to remember her. She is a florist, and wants the tree to supply greenery for flower arrangements, though she'll have to wait a few years before she can start harvesting, given that at the moment it's barely 45cm tall.
Everybody I rang to tell them that plants had now arrived that they had asked for, sometimes months ago, was either really pleased to be called because they still wanted the plant, or at least didn't mind being called. A couple wanted time to think about whether they did still want the plant, which is fair enough but pushing the envelope of our information management system to the limit. A colleague rang someone who'd been after Rubus odoratus, and they were with us that same afternoon. It is disheartening when everyone you call has found the plant elsewhere, or substituted something else. One woman I spoke to couldn't remember ordering a Ptelea trifoliata, or even remember what the plant was and what it did, but once I'd described it she said she'd have it anyway. She must have a large garden, to be able spontaneously to fit in a 7m tall shrub. Ptelea trifoliata is the hop tree, a pretty thing with greenish, hop-like scented flowers, and interesting fruits. I have one myself I grew from seed, though it is not very happy in the lean sand along the edge of the wood, and I really ought to keep it free of weeds and generously mulched with mushroom compost to try and persuade it to grow a bit faster.
The owner rang the rude woman with the dead tree yesterday evening, and pacified her, though not to the extent of promising to replace the tree until the manager had seen it. Faced with the choice between angering high spending customers and becoming a soft touch for giving out replacements, she came down on the side of firmness, but got her call in early, before the woman could go out that evening and blacken our reputation over the dinner tables of Suffolk. Apparently she took the line that I could not have been expected to know that the customer had spent a lot of money, and explained our returns policy. I tried to do that, but people like yesterday's awful woman probably listen harder when they are speaking to someone they identify as People Like Us, and not a shop assistant they have written off as a social inferior. It remains to be seen whether the manager gives her a new tree anyway, even if he thinks the old one failed due to poor cultivation, and not through any fault of ours. I wouldn't be surprised if he does, as a 'goodwill gesture'. Pish to goodwill. I've spent more than £500 with the Whichford Pottery in the past year, but I wouldn't expect a free replacement if I was stupid enough to break one of their pots shortly after purchase.
The owners were interviewing a shortlisted candidate for the plant centre job, and introduced him to those staff who were around. He currently works in a garden centre, and would like to improve his plant knowledge, which he would certainly do working with us. He told us some hair raising stories about their customers. They get people bringing back dead plants bought from other nurseries and trying to claim a refund, even to the point of swiping labels from the stock in that garden centre and putting them on the plants from elsewhere. Staff can spot this when it isn't the right label for that style or size of pot or plant. Allegedly, some customers will even damage plants of the same variety as the ones they are buying, leave them there on the garden centre bed, then come back ten days later, pick up the wilted plants, and present them at the till with their receipt, claiming these are the ones they bought, as a scam to get free extras. Thinking about it afterwards I wondered how the garden centre staff knew that was what customers were doing, and if it happened regularly or only the once. I don't think most of our customers are that devious. Loud shouty sense of entitlement is more their style.
I told the Systems Administrator about the awful woman with the dead tree, who said that she was probably married to the sort of person the SA used to work for. 'Dickhead fund manager working in Fixed Interest' was the exact phrase.
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