You may know of Beverley Nichols, a British 20th century novelist amongst whose output can be found some rather camp and amusing gardening books. Actually, it might be that all of his books are camp and amusing, but I have only read those with a horticultural bent.

In one of them he wrote, “We all know that a garden never stops outside the doors of a real gardener. It comes in. Not only in the shape of mud on the carpet, but of catalogues on the piano, twine round the telephone and seed-packets on the mantelpiece”.

This is very true.

And it’s very true of Boot Hall. The garden seeps into the house. Actually, it’s a more of a torrent.

Since the kitchen door leads to the garden, unsurprisingly it’s the room that’s worst hit. There’s always a pile of stuff by the backdoor that is either going to or from the garden/greenhouse. Elsewhere is a ever-present small red trug of stuff ready to take to the allotment, and a recent addition, a small propagator of pelargonium cuttings from Saturday’s RHS study day, is perched on the window sill.

A bit like the rats in London, by my reckoning, in the kitchen you are never more than 3 feet from a seed packet.

Aside from this a quick scan of the house reveals:

A slick of horticultural books and magazines in the living room

More seed packets on the stairs and landing window sill, where there’s also a knotty ball of fillis

Another tidemark of garden books/mags in our bedroom.

Our smallest bedroom (laughing known as the office) is chock-full of plant related stuff – books, magazines, pictures, paper cuttings, more seed packets and so on. And it has a windowsill full of pots plus the electric propagator and a smaller unheated propagator with gingers in tucked away down by the radiator.

None of this bothers me, but it does drive the OH a bit dotty. Which raises a question.

Where is a good (and covert) place to start some sweet potato slips?