Having just written about terracotta pots and their frost proofness - can I get away with that word? - I thought I would tell you a little story with a little name dropping in the process.
This might sound funny now, but at the time, just after I had landed a five figure contract, it was not a laughing matter and I lost nights of sleep over it.
The venue was Manor Farm - this was the bolt hole that Michael Jackson, friend of Guy Dellal, sought sanctuary after child abuse allegations against him broke - Brown Candover and the client was the audacious Iranian businessman Jack 'Blackjack' Dellal.
I came on the scene at a time when Dellal had just trousered a cool £75 million from the Bush House property deal
The Manor house was a fantastic old place but not really that salubrious considering the unimaginable wealth of Dellal.
Just across the road, the Heineken family had bought and renovated another old Manor House - with no expense spared - that overshadowed the rather 'tatty' looking Manor Farm.
For example, rather than use a lovely old second hand stock brick of the period when building the gym and indoor swimming pool, the builder decided on a brand new machine made stock that I thought would have looked in keeping on a Berkeley Homes site.
When I started the contract the garden was a shambles and looked as though it had been neglected for years. I understood that a previous butler had been in charge and pottered about when he either saw fit or had time.
I was really proud of our work there and, although he was as hard as nails, I was earning a little respect from Dellal, who eventually returned return my hello's rather than just grunting - although he didn't seem too comfortable with having to be too polite, as I recall.
It got to the stage where he even took the time to walk out to see me to discuss my plans for expansion of the garden, with what almost passed for enthusiasm.
Just before my arrival on the contract, a strange melange of agencies had put together a landscape planting plan which I was charged with, begrudgingly, implementing.
The garden design had been contrived from the Southampton offices of a landscape architects practice which, I am sure, specialised in Sainsburys superstore car park layouts.
I am sure you will get my drift here, I mean 50 Symphocarpus 'Mother of Pearl' in a block adjacent to the (loosely termed) Croquet Lawn. 75 Hedera helix tricuspidata 'Veitchii' as ground cover. All under the umbrella of a fantastic mature Cedrus atlantica 'Glauca'.
I was fairly fresh from horticulture college and awash with enthusiasm and ideas but was aghast at the harshness and industrialisation of such a fine garden and I wanted to do something about it.
I had to get past the Mafia of agencies to start with though, the builder, who had demanded 10% of my contract - as an introductory fee - wanted, in conjunction with a property agent from Alton to vet, and add their cut, all of my plans.
Being the maverick I am, I was having none of this and wanted, although slightly terrified, to deal directly with the great chief.
Anyway, now you have a picture and a smell of the atmosphere, I will undo my digression and return to the original theme of the story.
Because this new contract, and that of Sir Humphrie and Lady Tollemarché of Sheet House near Petersfield, I was able to invest in a new tractor to cut the lawns.
Because of the state of the grass at both houses (once well kept lawns befitting of their status I am sure) I had to cut with a rotary mower.
I wanted something diesel and powerful that could work all day without a puff of black smoke and start first time on demand.
I opted, after a number of demonstrations, to go for a Shibaura (similar to this one, although you could buy the exact same thing badged as a Ford for an extra £1000).
I was introduced to Winchester Garden Machinery at the time and I agreed to buy the machine from them.
Part of the deal was to include a collection unit but, unbeknown to me, the collection unit was a WGM own brand that had not been made as yet and was still in engineering.
I had to wait about three months for it to arrive, despite my protestations and numerous calls to WGM.
In the end it arrived, a great big thing that stuck out at the back half the length again to the machine, rather bigger that I had envisaged and it had a whopping great fan unit to discharged the grass (or at least that was the plan) out of the rotary deck, into the large box at the back.
I was so pleased with the tractor. It was the latest sports car and I was the envy of some of my peers who had to do with old reconditioned machines. I needed it because I was the man on a mission and the best was needed.
If you want a job doing!
On the three days a week we spent at Manor Farm the pattern was always the same. Tuesday's and Thursday's was spent all day cultivating borders and removing weeds or restoration of areas that had not seen the light for years doing pruning etc.
On the Friday, the morning was spent doing the same with the afternoon (unless the weather was iffy) cutting the grass which was probably about two acres.
In those days I was pretty speedy and I would pride myself on being fast but efficient and having a keen eye for detail. To me, mowing was not just about cutting grass. It was an art form too and I would spend lots of time developing a process at each garden I was responsible for, perfecting an 'eye catching' cutting regime that was efficient from a time perspective yet pleasing for anyone who could see it.
On one particular day, my first full time employee, complained that I was always the one to sit on my backside all afternoon and cut grass whilst he spent the day digging. He was right to a point but it was a tiring job none the less and I felt I needed to do it. Unfortunately, with the need for harmony, I relented and let my assistant takeover for the afternoon.
I kept my beady eye on him all the time and I remember huffing and puffing as I saw my timings go out the window with the main lawn alone taking double the normal time.
But, nothing could prepare me for the shock I was just about to get - feeling that went with that shock were rather overwhelming.
I watched helplessly as the tractor, with this great big skip of a grass collector on the back, reversed towards a very, very big terracotta pot filled with summer bedding plants next to the front door.
This pot stood over a metre high and probably about 750mm wide at the top. It was very old and had Greek decorations around the sides.
The 'skip' came in contact briefly with the top of the pot. Not a hard thump but more like a tap on the shoulder. I watched nervously for what seemed an age holding my breath.
The pot was at the point of balance and near to the point of no return. I remember thinking to myself, if Mike (although I will change his name to Pete to save him from embarrassment if he should ever read this) pulled forward slowly, the pot would return upright and............ too late!, for some reason, Pete decided to rock the hydrostatic pedal one more time. The tipping point had been reached and in very slow motion the pot tumbled over and broke into many pieces.
Pete continued, oblivious to his crunch with Greek history, and meandered down the lawn without a care in the world. All I could think about was - how was I going to explain this to Blackjack?
Well I had to of course and it was not too much of a problem and he seemed to take it on the chin but the crunch was that this Greek tragedy was going to set me back £1000.
The pot was indeed an antiqueand Dellal wanted it to be paid for. I was insured but it didn't stop me from feeling retched about it and I did not have a great weekend.
Pete and I decided, that Pete could at least glue the original back together with a terracotta coloured glue so that Blackjack could still enjoy the urn as it used to be.
I had to admire Pete for offering but unfortunately, he took several weeks to complete the job, leaving me frustrated. Because I had promised Blackjack that we could return the urn to its former spot he of course didn't let me forget
Eventually, I got a call from Pete - a shorter version of Mike Rutherford of Genesis - The pot was finished and I could bring the Renault Trafic round for collection - anyone sensed what the crunch is yet?
On arriving I walked into his lovely old Victorian semi in Rowledge and smiled broadly at the completed pot. Pete had cleaned it up too and you needed to look very hard to see the joins where the pot had been glued.
I had to compliment him on a fantastic job and after a celebratory cup of tea, made with real leaves and tea strainer, we picked up the pot and gingerly edged towards the door.
The 750mm wide pot would not, however we tried, go through the less than 750mm wide door frame.
Even when we levered off the fine stripped pine architrave from around the stripped pine door (which we also removed) the urn was still too bloody big. I could have cried!
In the end we had to dismantle the sash window, mechanism as well, to squeeze the pot through. Another half a day wasted and off we set to Brown Candover to replace the pot.
Funny enough, Pete was extremely happy to weed borders on Friday afternoons from then on.
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