Every year we buy a small amount of plug plants, mainly for filling the large urns in front of the house and the granite planters in the garden. We had some problems a couple of years ago with a supplier that up until that point had been exemplary. They let us down in all ways possible and we therefore, after much groaning, moaning and serial complaining, switched allegiance. This company are now under new ownership and, as they were persistent with their catalogues and promises of the world and more, I decided to give them a second chance. A couple of weeks ago the first of two expected packages arrived. If I was to guess what adventures this parcel had been party to I would guess it had begun with being thrown off Niagara Falls in a barrel, followed by a ride on the Tower of Terror roller coaster, rounded off nicely with a stampede of bison on the plains of Nebraska. Needless to say I complained. I spoke to a real human being who was very obliging and after farcically excusing the state of their product on “a rough crossing”, they promised to replace the whole lot. Quite rightly. Today another box sat in the porch; the power of potential grief that emanated from this small cardboard container was palpable. In trepidation I opened it. Hero hid in the greenhouse. A tray of perfectly formed little violas lay beneath the protective layer. I potted these up with joy in my heart and The Boys are Back in Town on my ipod (I may have swayed a little). They still owe us another delivery of plants, let us hope they are on a roll now.