Writers Can Write About Anything
Somehow or other (but I’ve got my suspicions) it has got around the village that I’m a writer. When the phone rang yesterday, I was surprised to hear the voice of one of the organisers of our Gardens Weekend, who asked whether I’d be kind enough to write a few words about the next Gardens event in 2022.
What do I know about Gardens Weekend? Absolutely nothing at all is the answer to that. I loathe gardening, and we’re usually at the van on that weekend every year when scores of sad people with nothing else to do all day traipse through other people’s gardens and make knowledgeable comments about their Rubus cockburnianus (yep, really) et al. The organisers make a killing with the car park fees and cream teas, the church gets a new roof (why were there so many dodgy roofers in Victorian times?), and Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt so they say.
However, this particular organiser was not to be put off. Apparently I’m a writer, and so I can supposedly write about anything, even Gardens Weekend. I stated my total ignorance on the subject, hoping to end the conversation, but instead was invited to the ‘big house’ for a conference with green-fingered village stalwarts in order to pick their brains for information. I then made a futile plea that I am off on holiday tomorrow, but not to be outdone, the organiser replied that everybody was free today at 2pm. […]
