Cake or death

I met my parents for lunch at a fancy garden centre in the Cotswolds today – it was one of those vast, cavernous affairs where the garden was an afterthought. Each area themed like something out of the Crystal Maze – Richard O’Brien came bounding past at one point with a load of 34-year-old IT workers from Reading shrieking “To the gilet zone!”

The clientele was very different to my usual sort of garden centre, we weren’t in Dobbies anymore. The age skewed rather higher, too. The women inside were all beautifully coiffed and twinsetted, you wouldn’t have surprised me at all if you’d told me there was a Mary Berry lookalike competition happening in the useless but compelling kitchen gadgets section.

I’m rather more used to going to garden centres with actual plants, with tools you might expect to use rather than a chromed ceremonial wheelbarrow or decorative spade, and those big revolving jobs full of seeds. There was a ‘rare and unusual’ plant section in this garden centre, but they were in a refrigerated cupboard, as if anything organic had to be kept separate for our protection. Lovely selection of olives and charcuterie too.

The cafe was a delight though – I enjoyed a delicious pistachio and lemon cake with a rose water flavoured icing, washed down with a locally blended pot of Earl Grey. Tea and a bun, really, just with added ponce. The fillable water carafes were a nice touch, a token on the way to making us feel like we were getting our money’s worth.

An ambulance appeared at the window over our shoulder at one point, but given the demographics you’d have to assume they have one on permanent standby at one end of the car park. Gardening isn’t for everyone, you understand.