Herself made me go to the Garden Centre today. It's pure suffering for me but she wanted to get two heavy earthenware pots, one of them for the young olive tree my Belgian buddy gave me a couple of years ago. She's a strong girl but they are a bit heavy and awkward for a woman to manage.
The place is endless, under an infinite succession of greenhouse roofs, with corridors between the plants and clobber just wide enough to take the hard-to-steer, awkward trolleys provided. Every now and then you have to back and fill as you morosely plod round after Herself, who knows what she's doing I suppose even if it's a mystery to me.
I doubt if we were there longer than 40 minutes but it seemed like hours. That's what purgatory was supposed to be like, every second a billion years' worth of acute suffering.
I'm jittering about trans-potting the olive tree whose original pot is broken. But there's a horticultural woman friend supposed to be coming tomorrow who can ramrod the process or even do it all herself. Earth-covered fingers crossed.
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Purgatory