My house is currently on the market.
For Sale. On the crest of the housing market boom. In the bubble.
Hubble bubble toil and trouble.
There’s an offer on the table. HOORAH. It’s a paltry offer. BOO.
Meagre. Scanty. It wouldn’t even buy me the chimney stacks on the Old Parsonage. The pretty, perfect Parsonage with its pilasters and pediment, its Flemish bricks and fossil finials. I want to live here. In a real life Doll’s House, with its sexy symmetry and glamorous garden. Why can’t I live here? Why shouldn’t I aspire to neo-classical neatness and Georgian Gorgeousness?
Because, peeps, because I suffer from the joint diseases of impecuniosity and proletarianism. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon shoved where the sun don’t shine. All I’ll inherit is a very dubious Ercol dining suite. But one can dream, and one can pretend, which is why we ended up at The Old Parsonage in Arley, Cheshire, last Sunday.
The National Garden Scheme – Yellow Book – features gardens in the UK not normally open to the public. Perfect if you are nosey like me.
Or like plants.
Or afternoon tea.
Not so perfect if you are moving house and have ridiculous delusions of grandeur. Sitting on the terrace of a garden bulging with begonias and poppies and peonies and roses and putting off the evil hour when you have to leave through the quaint little gate in the quaint little hedge and return to your not so quaint little house on a not so quaint little street in a positively un-quaint Northern Town.