When did the Garden Centre become a department store?
Can Fiona find a rose bush among the furniture, clothes, kitchen essentials and pets?
All I want is a new bush… a rose bush. Not a lot to ask and, surely, one of the several ‘Garden Centres’ in my locale will oblige? All I have to do is drive there, park, go straight to the roses section, select my specimen, pay and I’m out of there faster than you can shake a (well pruned) stick.
Think again. Driving there - check. Parking - not so easy. When did the car park expand to something the size of Wembley Stadium? But it’s OK! I see a space… no, that’s for stick man, stick lady and stick child (all holding hands.) Once more around the one way system (I didn’t realise this was in place either until an irate pensioner waved a knarly fist at me). Finally, I slot into a space. The parking sensors are shouting at me and it is only when I exit the car that I realise why. These spaces are so narrow I cannot open the door more than 30 degrees. The phrase ‘sucking it all in’ takes on a new meaning. I make it out, just, and head for the entrance.
It should be plain sailing from here…
Expecting to be greeted by the fresh scent of newly watered compost and flowers I was suddenly thrown off course. This is a place that should be stuffed with perfect natural specimens of the horticultural variety; and, for a moment, I am very confused. Are there no real plants or flowers left on earth? Have I slept through an ice age? Instead of rows of bedding plants, shrubs and exquisite houseplants I am met with buckets upon buckets of ‘faux’ (or, let’s be honest - plastic) flowers. And their scent - an overbearing, dried, barky and sickly sweet combination of Pot Pourri (a real pet hate of mine). Why is a Garden Centre, supposedly a beacon of horticultural excellence, selling plastic foliage backed by a smell that could be found in the back of your Great Aunt’s wardrobe?
I gradually acclimatise and head up to the next area. Now I am convinced someone is playing a practical joke on me. I am confronted with a massive area displaying dining room furniture. Could someone please pinch me? Am I dreaming? Is this a Garden Centre or a DFS? Why on earth would you come to a place like this to select your next furniture investment? Madness!
And have I mentioned the ‘music’ blaring out yet? No? That’s because you can’t really call it music. It’s noise; overbearing, tinny, ‘doesn’t let you think for a minute’ noise. And I can’t escape this. I appear to be on hell’s own equivalent of the yellow brick road. A ‘one way, follow me or you’ll be approached by a security guard,’ path. I am still searching for my rose, so I stick with it even though my mind is starting to scream “get me out of here!”
Kitchen knives, tablecloths and colanders. Excuse me?! A whole department of ‘essential, can’t live without’ utensils. And I know this because there’s a man on a TV screen demonstrating some kind of kamikaze slicer that I NEED to buy, because it will change my life. It will also give me a very orange fake tan and a kitchen that looks like something off Fawlty Towers. Resisting this temptation, I soldier on - and it really does now feel like I’m in a battle.
Having left home furnishings hell I find myself thrown into some kind of petting zoo. There are rabbits, guinea pigs, lizards and a whole plethora of other creatures vying for my attention and for my heart to melt so that I will take them home along with all the essential accompaniments that they require - bowls, mats, combs, treats, outfits(?!) and bedding. Young children are getting more and more hysterical with their grandparents as they beg to add one of these creatures to the menagerie at home. The grandparents finally give in and oblige - they’ll drop said specimen (the creature, not the child) off to the parents and it won’t be their problem anyway. The joys of grandparentship!
Finally, I can see a chink of daylight in the distance. Could this be the outside? Freedom from the never ending shelves displaying scented candles, decorated paper napkins and cakes with the longest shelf life known to man? I can even smell a whiff of fresh air through the pot pourri fug.
Outside it is and the sense of relief is enormous. Having said that, the ‘outside’ is a patch only as big as a semi-detached’s back garden. All ( & I really do mean all) of the outdoor trees and plants that this GARDEN centre has to offer fit into this tiny space. It’s August, so the bedding plants have seen better days and are now so leggy they’re trying to escape. The shrubs are in need of a good prune and clearly everything is suffering from the inevitable annual hosepipe ban.
But, wait… I see a sign… ‘Roses.’
At last, my Holy Grail. I dodge and weave my way around abandoned low carts that take the skin off my shins as I round a corner to reach my destination. One, solitary, sad looking rose is there to greet me. All alone, droopy, spikey and bloomless. I look at the label - this rose is called ‘Hope.’ I decide that this rose is speaking to me - I too am now droopy, spikey in mood and pretty bloomless. We share the prospect of hope - the hope of getting out of here. Let’s head for the exit.
I rejoin the highway of hell and spot a sign for the cash desk (another misnomer these days - who uses cash?) But, before I can breathe a sigh of relief, my journey is interrupted by a big yellow barrier. There’s a sign; ‘No Entry. Please use the alternative route. Thank you for your understanding whilst we set up our Christmas displays.’ WTF? It’s August! I am now as red in the face as Santa’s suit and try to find the ‘alternative’ route. This takes me halfway back the way I came but throws in a chance to admire displays of crystals, clothing and a kind of art gallery before I finally get to the checkout.
The forlorn Hope and I eventually make it to the car. As I drive home (one-way system observed) I reflect on my morning’s experience. Why have Garden Centres become tacky department stores crossed with amusement parks for small children and the retired? And don’t even get me started on the cafes and coach parties that are attracted here. That’s a whole new chapter of rant.
Still, I have one thing to try and keep me going… Hope.
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Jonathan is a publisher at Winter & Drew Publishing.
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