Beauty in the eye of the pollinator

I was sitting in the cemetery, chatting with all my dead friends, Inge and Herbert, when my phone rang. It was Nicoline with a completely unexpected offer.

I’d been to the ICA and was having my usual mid-walk rest. I was telling the Herbert that the roundabout resurfacing was finished – Inge wasn’t interested. In passing, I may also have told them that Mirinda will return and not even know it was done at all.

This is how it looked on April 5:

They had been very busy with big machines and men in flouro clothing.

Then, on Wednesday, on the way to the deli grand opening, Nicoline and I were held up by the only traffic jam I’ve ever experienced in Trosa. This was to allow the essential resurfacing work to be completed.

And today, like magic, everything was back to normal, and it looked like this:

All in around a week. Amazing.

Not that that was the most amazing thing today.

My regular reader will know how I feel about garden centres. For irregular readers…Mirinda has often threatened not to take me to them, because I refuse to enjoy the experience. And, to be honest, I’m not sure why I used to insist that I’d pretend to be good in order to go. Except maybe to keep an eye on the purse strings as they gradually unravelled.

Anyway, Nicoline’s unexpected proposal was to visit a garden centre. Well, not exactly a garden centre in terms that a Brit would understand. This was way better. Three massive greenhouses, containing thousands of little flower pots, and a small shop selling pots and other important things.

And all up a nondescript driveway leading to, what appeared to be, a house.

I have to admit that, while I was a bit uncertain about going (because of my history of garden centre misery) I’m really glad I did. And, of course, I now need to show Mirinda where it is. Unless, of course, Nicoline wants to take her.

Our mission at this garden centre was for Nicoline to buy a frost resistant plant. Which she did. And, while she maintained that it was exceedingly ugly, she bought it. There was some discussion between us about whether flowers could be ugly. A bee put paid to that when it happily buzzed around the plant she bought.

Beauty is clearly in the eye of the pollinator.

PS: I need to make a few corrections to my post about the deli we went to on Wednesday. Firstly, the chef chap is called Johan, and he owns the deli and not Bergs Gård. He buys his meat from Bergs Gård. The woman was his wife. I have amended the post accordingly. Which, I guess, makes this postscript somewhat superfluous.