3rd July: Me and Bob Flowerdew

I awake, warm, smiling and alone, in my wooded corner of the cricket pitch. Sprinkles of sunlight dart between branches and birds want to chat with me.  ‘Good morning blackbirds, thrushes and robins, how are you in your little nests? As cosy as me in mine?’ 

This campervan life is proving exceedingly productive on both the passion front and on the joy of nature front.   Maybe I could become a roving reporter for Spring Watch, Top Gear, Spring Gear.

Back in Leicester, and amidst house clearance and cleaning, I frequently check my phone for a flirtatious message from Brexit-Bloke but there is nothing.  Did I dream the last twenty-four hours?

Emptying the house is sometimes emotional.  Can I throw away a life-time of birthday cards from my nana? No.  Can I throw away the thirty-year-old letters written by an ex-part-time boyfriend?  No. Should I sell the book ‘The Beauty of the Husband’ that CP, a Professor of Oncology I dated gave to me?  Maybe.  As I hesitate about its destiny I recall that he once told me that his ex-wife was “still fucking gorgeous.”  After those sweet words, I’d emailed him that I would not be coming over to see him the following Friday.  He replied that he’d got three dates that week but I was the only one he was expecting to sleep with.  Ho hum, the bastard knew me well and on the Friday we broke his bed. ‘The Beauty of the Husband’ goes up for sale on Amazon. 

Gardener’s Question Time is on Radio 4 but it’s not quite as exciting for me as the one that was aired three weeks ago:

Peter Gibbs: Good Afternoon from the Hay Festival and who has our first question?

Me: Good afternoon. My name’s Genevieve, from Leicester.  As from July 7^th I’m going to be living in a campervan. Can the panel suggest any plants to improve the environmental and aesthetic appearance of my van?  Obviously, nothing too big and nothing that will attract spiders please.  (Laugh from audience)

Matthew Wilson: How much space have you got on board to move plants around?

Me: The van is about seven-foot wide by fifteen-foot long. So, not a lot.

Matthew Wilson: Hmm, maybe some small china ornaments.  I think you ought to get some plastic stuff, I really do. Or bonsai. Yes bonsai. (Laughter from audience).

Me: No, no.

Matthew Wiliamson: Yes, Genevieve, Bonsai.

Me: No, can I hear from another panelist?

Pippa: I have a total and utter abhorrence of bonsai.  You want small loam-based plants, but beware, you’ll soon get some critters hitching a ride.

Bob Flowerdew:  You want herbs because you want to be able to cook with them.  So, you need some basil for all those tomato dishes; you want some thyme; some rosemary.  You need some sage; maybe even a little mint.  Oregano!  All of those will take a little drying out but they will add so much to your cooking.

Me: Thank you. That’s lovely, thank you.

Peter Gibbs: And onto our second question.

            I must add thyme and rosemary to my shopping list this week, maybe there will be interesting discussions or even a foursome on board the van: Rosemary, Father Thyme, my Mr Rabbit and Lauren having scented fun and games together.  Regarding plants, last September, for the first time in my life, I had a spate of making jam and chutney due to the bountiful fig tree in my garden.  Being a virgin when it comes to preserving I purchased about twenty glass jars for my produce; some were filled and given away, others were filled and consumed by me. These are now empty and together with mixing bowls, a rolling pin, vases and a jumble sale find of a silver-plated candelabra that nana had given me, my preserve jars are added to the boxes for charity shops.   In some ways these well-intentioned jars represent a life I’ve dreamt of but barely touched.  Some women my age seem to have a house made of Kilner jars, eight children, a husband and a calendar full of appointments for hot yoga and fund-raising prosecco tournaments.  Each year they meet the same successful families on their glamping holidays and each year I look at them with envy through the gap in the broken zip in my single tent.  Perhaps I shouldn’t; maybe some of these women might be envious of my no husband, one-child situation.  There is a faint possibility they might stare wistfully at the contents of my noticeboard: a discount leaflet for a new Bargain Booze shop; a leaflet about a Sunday talk on the architecture of Leicester at the Secular Hall; a letter about my first mammogram and a two-for-one voucher to see Rams, an Icelandic film about two elderly shepherds.  I will be watching this with Farmer Darcy, providing, of course, I wear a bag over my head for a pre-film glass of red. 

            Five hours, and eight bin-bags for the LOROS charity shop later, I hear from Brexit Bloke.  He’d got my number wrong and had to coitus interruptus the bride and groom on their honeymoon to get my details.  We arrange to meet as soon as I’m van dwelling.