And I have daffodils. Daffodils have a very powerful effect on the psyche of a light starved, flower starved gardener. They induce all manner of activities such as weeding, pruning back perennials, shifting self seeded annuals into gaps, and planning mulch and pig poo spreading.
One day in some future garden, I may only have daffodils and lawn and trees. I imagine my woolshed residence on a small rise in a vast meadow of grass, a few large trees, and daffodils. And a concrete chicken to keep the slug population under control.
I imagine that, but in reality I know what will happen. Some pansies will sneak their way in, and some violas, and they will self seed, and I won't be able to resist planting a few poppies, and a few cuttings from friends, which will harbour clandestine forget-me-nots. And the whole process will begin again.
Because I have in my head a Beatrix Potter landscape, inhabited by hollyhocks, larkspurs and poppies; which will not go away, no matter how much I try to superimpose the daffodil meadow with the trees. No matter how much I despair about the mulch of sticks and sludge that a cottage garden becomes here in the winter, and the hours I have to spend weeding and cutting back and transplanting. A cottage garden represents something safe, nurturing and dependable. It's a metaphor for the kind of Enid Blyton existance I wished for as a child. I think I subconsciously re-create it wherever I go. I do not think I can really exist without a few roses, some forget-me-nots, and a concrete chicken...