Chelsea Flower Show?

I had a quaint idea many moons ago when we moved to Somerset from the big smoke; that I, like my grandmothers before me, would have a garden full of fabulous herbaceous borders, roses would proliferate in abundance and hollyhocks would welcome all at the gate.

The hollyhock was eaten this winter, having never flowered. I did plant honeysuckle, two actually. One twines decorately through a hornbeam tree, but is on the side of the house never seen except by those driving at speed down the road outside; the other spreads desperately in every direction, still waiting in vain for the trellis that the other half was going to install some 10+ years ago. We've had moderate success with roses, until the recent drought meant that the garden became so waterlogged that the rose arch finally rotted and, aided by strong easterly winds, crashed to the ground, where it remains. The roses themselves are still in situ, but currently re-aligning themselves through the horizontal arch and trellis.

We have one flowerbed, it took me twelve years to dig and in the intervening time has changed constantly in content. This is not due to some wonderful on-going plan that I have, rather to my assistant gardening team.

I plant bulbs/seeds/seedlings, it matters not. Firstly, the hens regard the flowerbed as their afternoon dirt-bath domain. This involves scratching out a large enough basin for them to snuggle down in, then flinging a bit more earth about to cover the feathers, basking in a trance like state for about half an hour or more, then getting up to scratch and dig at the flower bed in the hope that any escaping slugs or worms might be snapped up. They move on, but reserve the right to revisit at any chosen moment during the day. The installation of sturdy netting over the top fooled no-one. All eight firstly trod nonchalantly over the top, treating it with utter disdain, then simply dislodged it and proceeded to have their dirt bath underneath. They didn't look quite so content as usual, but they were prepared to put up with the circumstances.

Dogs one and two are partial to a bit of bone-burying and imaginary mouse-hunting. Both exercises involve choosing a separate part of the flower bed to those already excavated by the fowl and digging until shouted at; then resuming said activity as soon as the human concerned has turned their back.

I am further assisted by the playing of sport. Footballs and cricketballs have snapped delphiniums, mashed lupins and broken foxgloves clean in two. Barriers of wooden planks, garden chairs, old milk crates (remember the GroundForce team and all their 'features'?), a catching net and the garden bench have all been pressed into service to try and protect this modest bed - no effect whatsoever.

Then there's the lawnmower, all too easy to swing around at the end of a row and 'woops' there go the trailing daisies or whatever poor plant has attempted to venture over the brick border - which to be fair to whoever is mowing, is usually hidden beneath long grass.

So, this spring I have one lupin plant where once I had several. My swathe of alium (that's probably alii in multiples!), was reduced to a straggling, but still curvaceous line, then last year to a trio of starburst spikes. This year, one lone white alium stands head and shoulders above everything else - won't last long with the cricketers about. When I first began planting, I had a plan (sort of); but nothing looked as it should have done come the requisite time. Now, I pretty much just bung everything in the middle and wait for the hens and dogs to redistribute. Not quite guerilla gardening, but it may as well be! Do you suppose there's a class for this kind of design at Chelsea?