No, not the TV show, but rather the Chelsea Flower Show gardens: They’re superlative this year – and made on the spot in the grounds of The Royal Hospital, Chelsea.
And, that’s not all there is to enjoy at this stalwart of an event: The comments to be heard wandering along a logically organised route are to be relished as one views flowers and creative displays.
I paused at the Morgan Stanley Garden. “It’s absolutely stunning” a behatted lady said to her companion and then turned to the man on the stand: “You were robbed.” Various other viewers murmured agreement; there was a head shake or two. I wandered further along main avenue to see the culprit of all this dissent.
Past shuffling bag carrying visitors I went, pausing to look at other show gardens on the way. Finally on the corner tall blocks of stone rose to greet me, wild plants and weed type species burst up through the hard slabs. “Is it inspired by the Giant’s Causeway?” my brother asked.
“No, Malta – it’s got that desolate drought feeling about it.”
A lady behind me blew her nose: “It’s all about what grows up after…” She trailed off. Her friend continued: “It’s divided opinion a bit: Best in Show?!! It’s not my cup of tea.”
Through the pollen and Artisan gardens we trod. A cacophony of sneezing and coughing surrounded us. “Gaw, there’s something making my nose go” a gentleman remarked to his partner.
“It’s the same every year in this area, love, it’s the tree pollen.”
At the end of day, I returned to my favourite: The BBC Radio Two Zoe Ball Listening Garden. “There’s something especially comforting about this one.” I said to my brother as I placed my foot on the gravel to feel the sound vibrating as, reaching its lowest frequency, it simultaneously caused the water to ripple, bubble and then spurt in the long troughs nestling amongst the greenery.
“Mesmeric, isn’t it?” the lady helping out said. “They’re all supposed to be a comfort – these gardens reflecting the senses” she told me. “You were here earlier weren’t you?”
I replied that I was, and told her the name of my blog. “Well, my name’s Mel, and I’ve just won best explainer of the day.” she told me.
“And well deserved too.”
I turned to my brother to suggest it was time to go. “Can you feel the sound?” an elderly lady beside me asked her husband.
“No, nothing.”
“Well, maybe your shoes are too thick.” she said turning to leave. “Let’s go and get an ice cream.”
Thanks to RHS for a fantastic day.
In the Nineties, dare I say so, we all read it. In fact we read two of them: ‘Men are From Mars, Women are from Venus’, and ‘Mars and Venus on a Date.’
“Seriously? You have a bath and a kettle in your room?” I said to new 
“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m on holiday, not in Maida Vale” I said to The Brunette – my dinner companion for the evening. Contemplating the decor of our newest local restaurant immediately imbued a sense of relaxation and calm. Dark wood, mirrored strips on walls – a nod to Japanese lacquer – minimal tables and a soupçon of light jazz to be heard in the background provided the comfort of the traditional with the frisson of the new.
Manners maketh man and most certainly add to the enjoyment of dinner out on a Wednesday night. Politely we were asked what we’d like to drink. We discussed the options with Toru the owner: “Try the sparkling Sake” he told us, “It’s light, not too strong, I think you’ll be okay.” He was right; gently floral, the colour of effervescent water it was to be relished for itself rather than any unwanted effects.
We took our food recommendations from Ken: “This is nothing special” he repeatedly told us. Yellowtailed carpaccio with truffle oil, grilled asparagus with sesame dressing defined with threads of chilli as a starter told us otherwise.
Tom from Crepe City shoed us in. My niece led the way up urban stairs of concrete and steel into a cavernous room made of similar hard stuff. Music boomed so loud we had to shout at one another to be heard.
A sea of black hoodies, baseball hats, rucksacks and box-fresh super trainers adorned the majority of attendees at this Crepe City convention. I followed H’s Inter Jordan All Stars past rows and rows of sneakers for sale and asked for some explanation, some clue as to what all the fuss was about.
“The thing is, the Yeezys for instance – they’ll launch a new style in store, but the queues will start the day before so the chances of getting a pair at the retail price of £150 is slim. The fact that they’re limited in production ultimately increases their value for re-sale. That’s what this is all about” she informed me. “See?” I glanced at the trainer she held up for me to appraise. The price tag attached read ‘£750’ – a punishing price to pay for your inability to be one of the first in line on launch day.
I remained intrigued as we wandered on past the special Back to the Future Part II self-lacing Nike Air MAG trainers and other £3,000 pairs to be envied, admired, and coveted by some, if not all sneaker enthusiasts.
At a sneaker-friendly watch stand – finally comfy sofas and a free nailbar. I sat down and took full advantage; neon pink with a lavender heart, mindful of mother’s day ahead.
Heading towards the exit we passed a gentleman wearing a pair of Adidas Hardcourts. “I’ve come from Sweden especially to be here today” he told me. His newly-met companion shifted from one of her SB Dunks to the other, smiling at him admiringly.
Conversations with Strangers 