A couple of weeks’ ago I went to an open garden event and paid two quid for a slice of flapjack which I strongly suspect was half a ‘Go Breakfast bar’ with some chopped almonds sprinkled upon the top.
The heat was wonderful and I wore my wonderful banana republic shorts and linen shirt. I only wish I had overrulled my inner self and worn my pananama hat after all.
But oh my days, the smugness. The smugness was appalling. Smiles, complacent and sunshine fat and complacent. The ‘Oh this is nice, we’ve got one like this’, the ‘Yes I am very lucky’s.
Even smugger than my banana repubic shorts and linen shirt.
I dreamt all day of winning the lottery and entering next year, except I would be fucking explicit and hang a sign on my door which said ‘This my garden, don’t you bastards wish you had a life like mine?’.
Smugnes. Slightly overripe women sitting drinking herbal tea in boden as if they hadn’t noticed the tens of people looking at their fucking stupid pond.
Even smugger than a panama hat.
It wound me up to the point I thought about pissing in their ponds.
It really wound me up, to the point I took no photos to avoid giving satisfaction, which means this reveiew is a bit sparse of images. Not even sorry.
It really fucking wound me up, to the point of thinking of murder, and the more I thought of murder, the more I noticed how strange the whlole thing actually was.
I don’t know if you have ever seen ‘The Mirror crack’d’ starring Elizabeth Taylor, but you should, you should. Here is Elizabeth Taylor in it,
![Elizabeth Taylor looks like she’s just smelt the awful zoflora hyacinth](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V4Ar4znOP1A/TsIdE05tmLI/AAAAAAAACo4/kQ5pUwSH6VA/s1600/Mirror+Crack%2527d+6.jpg”/>
(Were I was forced at gunpoint to guess, I’d have said that she looks like she would have been a fan of zoflora hyacinth. Sadly, we will never really know for sure. Stupid biographers overlooking the basics.)
Anyway, that was set in a garden party, and that was a proper garden party. The one in the film was more real than the gardens in which I was standing. It had murder and drama. Real things. All the gardens here had was smugness. Not even a soundtrack, except for my muttered threats to kill or harm.
And the smell.
Zoflora Country Garden is the smell of an idealised garden. It smells much more real than the smell of those gardens I tramped around, accidentaly standing on expensive looking plants. It smells better than real. Real life has aeroplanes passing over head and shouting in the streets. Zoflora have, once again, taken something and in representing it chemically, made it better than real life. The smell is something you can imagine Elizabeth Taylor daubing on herself as she wakes languid in the 70s, age abated for another day.
Next year when I win the lottery, with my garden and my ‘fuck you’ sign, I am going to put buckets of ‘Country Garden’ in my dream garden.
Zoflora Country Garden: It smells better than real life.
(1 of these is more real than the other)
I’m only joking about my hatered of it, of course I tramped on no plants, it was lovely really. Except for that flapjack.