A year or so ago, I inherited a cardboard box filled with plants. It was an offshoot from an enormous collection that belonged to a young botanist from Stockwell. He was about to be turfed out of the derelict building he lived in and hundreds of plants were being spread across London. I offered to rehome a few.
My only outdoor space is a window box, so most of the plants had to face life indoors. Some were happy; others withered. I enjoyed having them, though, so I replaced the dead and began a collection. My one-bed flat now contains more than 20 plants.
The window box is bursting with herbs — parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. I’ve also added some mint. More knowledgeable friends tell me that it has aggressive roots and will soon turn into a despotic ruler. I do not doubt them. I refuse to hand over any more money to the supermarkets for scrawny packets of tasteless leaves, however, so I am waiting to see what happens. My bathroom has succulents — they like the humidity; the kitchen has a cactus. I don’t own a trowel, but a tablespoon does the job. A teapot makes a perfectly good watering can.
There are lots of excellent places to buy plants but it’s worth avoiding the rip-off merchants who have cropped up charging extortionate prices for fashionable species. I won’t name them, but suffice to say you should avoid anywhere that refers to itself as a ‘concept store’. Seek out garden centres or market stalls, or better still, grow your plants from cuttings or seeds. You can also find some stonking varieties online. I’m currently awaiting delivery of a ‘bird of paradise’ plant.
Magazine articles are subscriber-only. Get your first 3 months for just $5.
SUBSCRIBE TODAY- Free delivery of the magazine
- Unlimited website and app access
- Subscriber-only newsletters
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in