I’m not a gardener, but my mother is. I’ve always been fascinated by the plants she grows from seed, seedlings and little tiny shrubs, and nurtures them into blossoming flowers and expansive plants, organised perfectly into their own spot of her meticulously planned borders, looking comfortably at home as if they’d grown there naturally. She makes it look easy, popping tiny pieces of greenery into pots, and somehow, almost miraculously, they rapidly transform into colourful leaves, bright flowers, or edible vegetables.
The greenhouse is a factory of little tiny green sprouts of life, neatly laid out in rows awaiting planting into the garden. Some are just starting out and look no larger than a few blades of grass, but others are already developing complex structures in more varying shades of green than you could count. Even on the greyest of evenings, the green shoots seem to glow out of the dark earth, spreading upwards and outwards.
I don’t have a greenhouse, or even any grass at the moment, but I am trying to start my own little city garden back here in Brighton. I’m stocked up with pots, seeds and compost after a trip to the garden centre, and by some form of magic, I’ve already have some signs of life. I may not be the most green-fingered individual, but if I can keep a baby tomato plant going, then I’m going to be one happy gardener!