THE SECRET GARDEN
WHEN I WAS A KID, my parents used to enjoy nothing more than hustling me and my sisters into the Volvo and setting course to some obscure garden show or centre. The days would be spent traipsing around, invariably under a punishing sun, while Dad enthused over plants to the soundtrack of, ‘I’m bored, when can we gooow-ah?’
Natives were a particular favourite of my father’s, and to this day, the sight of a grevillea can make me feel irritable. Back then there wasn’t much to keep a kid entertained, horticulturally speaking. If a chicken made an ambivalent appearance, that was a highlight.
