Pampering

I want to talk about Pampas. A couple of years ago I discovered that there was a belief that those who had a pampas grass in their front gardens were deemed to be ‘swingers’

Being of a timid nature I planted my pampas at the rear of the property. I'd liked to be wooed before I swing. The Pampas is the one with the big plumes in Autumn- some of them are pink and may or may not designate the nature of the swinging that I was too timid to advertise, although in fairness, having my mother live with me does put one at a disadvantage in swinging circles. There is little point in grabbing a car key and taking someone home to be greeted with 'What time do you call this then?'.

So the big boy was planted and fertilised and grew….and grew. I redesigned the area over winter and now have started to remove dead cordalines that were not sufficiently protected …and the Pampas.

I cannot describe adequately the epic battle that can exist between one woman and her pampas grass. I now resemble the victim of a rather exuberant s &m whipping session and have discovered that I am allergic to the leaves. Having been manured and sheltered a dozen other grasses from the worst of the winter snow (the pampas, not me), it naturally feels that its eviction is unfair. The pampas looks dejected in a trug and I am a spotty, lacerated shadow of what was.

As I await yet more raised beds and the need to take up grass, and take in gravel and topsoil back breakingingly wheel barrow at a time….just sometimes I look longingly at the packs of carrots at the co-op where someone else battled the pests and the pampas as I contemplate the fact that my mother wants to move the bloody bamboo!