It’s the Chelsea Flower Show this week, the official start of the British “season,” and I will be attending not once, but twice, despite being an urbanite nature phobe. Ten years ago, I didn’t really know what the season was. Now I’ve got once. This is what age does for you.
Not all Bettses are nature averse. My brother, George, as green-fingered as his name, actually exhibited at Chelsea and won medals for it. However, my gene pool being what it is, he didn’t tip me off he was there, despite my then renting down the road in Pimlico. Still, I had no idea how to gain access, couldn’t have afforded to anyway, and was doubtless drunk.
Now over the bridge in sunny Stockwell, I am still close enough to suffer from the notorious Chelsea cough from April onwards. Meanwhile, I am an old-ish Chelsea hand, with a handful of sorties under my belt. Royal Horticultural Society stalwarts apart, legions of randos such as myself are invited by the event’s many sponsors: companies, charities and brands with stuff to advertise.
The first year I attended London’s great garden gala, I was bitterly disappointed, lost in a maze of dodgy garden sculpture, ghastly conservatory seating, and endless opportunities to acquire tat. Think: a suburban shitstorm in which nature was entirely absent.
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