“Buck up” yelled the ironmonger to the sluggish intern

I have just come back from the RHS Flower Show at Hampton Court. Often Hampton is hideously hot and we wander around skitting from shady tree to sheltered garden feature. This time it was pretty perfect apart from a couple of rain showers – although they came after judging was complete. There are few occupations more miserable than judging gardens in the rain. The colour is dulled, the atmosphere is dampened, the ink on notes is smudgy and the judges are distracted by the feeling of cold water dripping down their spines. We have to resist the temptation to give gold medals to any garden with a shed. If it has a fire (or food) then its chance of winning best in show is massively increased.

Anyway, this time it was jolly and everyone enjoyed themselves as you can see from the attached pictures of smiling judges. It was not, however, the show about which I wanted to write but instead about hotel showers in general and the one near Hampton in particular.

It is just me or are hotel showers almost invariably difficult to understand? too many knobs, no idea which way to turn said knobs, no indication whether twiddling will result in a bath or a rogue spray sluicing the shirtings. All this while battling with tiny towels and squirty soap.

I really am getting old* or my life is getting very, very dull. Or both.

I am listening to the Concerto Grosso No. 3 by Corelli. The picture is of a Dregia sinensis. A very sweetly scented climber given to me by a client. Bit tender, copes well here on a west wall.

** It is my Beatles birthday this weekend in case anybody wanted to send fudge.