However, there are times when I would like to believe that someone created what is around me and chose to place me in it just because it would be nice to have someone to thank.

I was driving back from West Quantoxhead today, having spent an hour or so planning a wedding at St Audries church and the beautiful St Audries Park with its lovely oh-my-god-I-must-have-one orangery. The road home nestles between the gently undulating Quantocks and the Brendons. The North Somerset Steam Railway meanders alongside, running up to the road for a bit then disappearing, to reappear, often with a friendly poo-woo, when you expect it least. Today the sky glowered with dark grey clouds and threatened rain, but the sun suddenly blasted through and lit up the hills and fields in such astonishingly bright colours that I very nearly ran into the hedge, so distracted was I by the incredible, even for round here, beauty.

Generally I’ve been very fortunate in life – I’ve never had to walk miles for water, scrabble round a rubbish dump for food or even worry much about paying the bills (although, I have lived in Hackney so like to think I am not completely unaware of the uglier side of life)* – but I swear to God (or not) that I will never, ever, become blasé about how lucky I am to live where I do and to grow flowers for a living.

Some would say I was blessed. I prefer “jammy as hell”.

* Yes, I know it’s all been regenerated and bits of it have always been lovely, but still…

No, don’t worry, not for you lot. I, however, seem to have slipped into that world of retail where you are always thinking at least a season ahead and consequently am beginning (in my defence, reluctantly) to think about Christmas wreaths.

Until this year, I had a proper job, which meant that any flower work had to be fitted around my shifts. That curtailed the number of wreaths I could actually get made at Christmas and meant that I would usually stop taking orders at some point. Yes, folks, people were turned away!

OK, it wasn’t like there was a queue outside the front door or anything, but there seemed to be enough demand to a) hugely inflate my ego and b) make me think there might be a bigger market out there to be tapped in following years. Anyway, to cut a long, rambling explanation short, this year I am going for it.

Which means I need to find the materials to make them with. Normally, I wouldn’t trouble myself with such nonsense for a good six weeks yet but, still in shock, I have already begun gathering materials. So far, it’s mostly holly berries and hydrangeas. I am putting them in glycerine to try to preserve them. In case this is new to you, you just mix one part glycerine (89p in Boots for 200mls) with two parts very hot water and then stand your flowers in a couple of inches of the solution and leave them for a few weeks in the shed. The idea is the flowers take up the glycerine with the water and stay soft. I have had mixed results before, and I have never tried it with berries, so I am not sure how successful it will be. If you give it a go, let me know how you get on and we’ll compare notes.

Although you’re not allowed to be better at it than me, of course.

As always, there is no excuse other than being totally preoccupied by weddings and weeding.  I have taken on significantly more weddings this year than ever before and I am still prone to the odd night of “WHAT HAVE I DONE?!!” fear and thoughts of whether it would actually be that indefensible to just pack up and emigrate (any future brides reading this, don’t panic – my passport’s run out). That usually happens on what I have come to think of as Wobbly Wednesday*, although thankfully it is happening less and less and, so far (don’t jinx it), there have been no disasters.

The other thing constantly nagging away at me is the weeding. Everything seems less important. Horticulturally speaking, it may not be as vital as you’d think – the flowers seem to grow just as well in weedy beds as in neat, tidy ones – but that’s not the point. The weeding  acts as a barometer of how I am doing. A weed-free bed delights me – I feel on top of things, organised, competent and in control. It empowers me. It makes me want to do more, better. Messy beds and unstaked, unpicked flowers make me want to curl up and howl. I become paralysed by a sense of there being so much to do that there’s no point doing anything. I start doubting my abilities, talk myself out of doing anything positive and usually end up going home, where I lie on the sofa for a couple of hours berating myself for not being at the field working. And so it goes on…

So, anyway, the point of telling you all that (probably unwisely) is to explain why blogging has fallen down the list a bit. I shall try and put some pictures on occasionally but you will have to forgive me if I don’t write much. A few photos from recent weddings to mollify you:

* That awful day when it’s too early to do anything constructive but near enough to the Big Rush to feel you really ought to be doing something – anything. 

Yesterday I sent some flowers to Dorset wedding photographer Courtenay Hitchcock of Courtenay Photographic. He had recommended me to some clients getting married next year at Athelhampton House and I just wanted to say thanks.  I rarely go anywhere these days without a gift of flowers and so my natural instinct was to send a bouquet.

But then a male friend said something to the effect of  ”Sending flowers to a man – isn’t that a bit risky?” It had never really struck me that that might be weird, and it got me wondering. Is it?

The men I come across when I’m doing my weddings seem to enjoy the excuse to wear some flowers. Sometimes the groom doesn’t come to the flower consultations at all, and occasionally you get one who comes but asks if it would be terribly rude if he sat in the car while we discussed the details, but often they seem to take a genuine interest in, at the very least, what will be in their buttonhole.

My own male friends and acquaintances tend to be pretty rounded, reconstructed types – and quite a few of them gay – so any inherent male need to present a macho front is not something I’ve ever really come across, but perhaps my impressions are skewed by that. I also realise that any men reading this are probably only here because they’re keen on flowers, but I would still be really interested to know how you feel if you are given flowers. Is it lovely? Or embarrassing? Do you read anything into it? Find it emasculating? Or is there a line which has to be carefully negotiated? Is a bunch of cornflowers for the table when I’m coming to tea OK, but a big bouquet wrapped in tissue paper on your birthday an entirely different matter?

And, women, do you buy men flowers? If so, just your partner, or would you risk buying them for somebody else’s?

Answers in the comments box, please. Courtenay, by the way (luckily), seemed thrilled.  And many thanks to him, too, for the fab photo.

By my standards, this weekend’s wedding was a big one – pedestals, pillars, pew ends, lychgate, steps, garlands for the marquee and field gates, and that’s in addition to all the usual bridal party stuff, of course. The colours were bright and loud, which I love doing, and the clients lovely, co-operative and organised.* You couldn’t ask for more.

But even so, late last night, there was the inevitable anguished cry of  ”Why am I doing this?”, shortly followed by the sulky “Why can’t I just get a job in Waitrose?” and,  just after everyone had relaxed again, the accusatory “I had a decent desk job, and left! How could you let me do that?!”

Is it just me? What do “normal” florists do? Why don’t you hear weeping and wailing and the clatter of buckets being kicked over coming from the open doors of high-street florists? Is there a special room out the back for this? Or do you just reach a stage – eventually, perhaps before you gamble on opening a shop – when it becomes smooth and easy? God, I hope so.

I did get it all done in time (just) – despite the heat, the unforeseen hiccups, and the leaden fog of tiredness that working 18-hour days brings. Mostly, though, it happened because of the inexhaustible energy, enthusiasm and kindness of Erica and the  competence**, goodwill and all-round helpfulness of Amanda. I am feeling a bit slushy from tiredness, so excuse the sentimentality, but I feel SO lucky to have found the people who help me out and really, truly do not know how I’d do it without them.

Anyway, I know you’re really just here for the pics, so a small selection:

*Swatches of all the fabrics used in the bunting and dresses bundled up ready for me – joy!

** She whittles the ends of woody stems into points, where I would hack at it with a blunt pair of secateurs.

Well, I’ve finally got my head round updating the website – some more recent photos (all totally clickable) and an additional gallery. I wasn’t sure what to put in the latter. At first I was going to keep it to photos of the finished product, thinking of it as my shop window. But then I added some of the field in case people are also interested in how I get there (the finished product, that is, not the field – nobody wants to know that*). But if they are, maybe I should add some which are a bit more warts-and-all. Do people really want to know about the mud and the weeds and the plastic-bottle cloches? Will that make me look honest and down-to-earth, or just amateurish?

Opinions, please.

*Van, occasionally bike.

I can do the growing and the floristry but what I can’t do after two 18-hour days of hard work is stand on top of a 10ft ladder with a heavy but fragile hanging ball of flowers in one hand, while hunting under the canvas for somewhere to tie it to with a secure-enough-not-to-kill-anybody knot with the other. So huge thanks to MHASTASFGDE (More-Help-And-Support-Than-A-Smalltime-Flower-Grower-Deserves Erica)* for doing all the hard bits.

And big thanks, too, to Wivvy Jan** who spent yesterday morning helping me prepare, despite having been at work till 2am the previous night. ***

Right, bed.

* Natty acronym, no?

** As opposed to me, White Van Jan.

*** I only took this pic because it looked so ridiculously idyllic. This is not in any way a true representation of what preparing for a wedding is like.

I love buttonholes. I love the way they are becoming more like little posies on your lapel and how young blokes, those who have never really known a time when it wasn’t done to moisturise, embrace wearing arrangements that would once have elicited talk of pansies – and not in the horticultural sense.

And I love brides who want their flowers bright!

The next few weeks are going to be busy – packed with weddings, fairs, meetings and post-it notes on the fridge reminding me to eat. I am not good with stress, being by nature a flapper (not the cloche-hat type) and naturally shaky of hand. At the height of a panic, you can often find me muttering to myself – not because I’m about to have a breakdown so much as because I need to keep telling myself to slow down and stop worrying about things that might never happen. (Neither message sinks in, of course.)

But worse than the rush is the anticipation of the rush.

A few days ago a friend pointed out to me that you couldn’t  click on the photos on my website to expand them to a size where you could actually see what the flowers were like. So, acknowledging that he was absolutely right and in an attempt to distract myself from meddling with my to-do lists, I started to update it. Big mistake! I have completely mucked it up, can’t work out how to get it to do what I want and can’t get it back to how it was.  And I don’t know when I’ll have time to sort it out (especially as - on top of everything! - the Apprentice is now calling to me from the iPlayer…). So if you have arrived here from my Under Construction page, apologies. Please scroll down through the blog posts to see some pics – ones that click into proper big ones!