My job for the morning is shifting seedlings round to maximise light and warmth. This changes hourly, and I worry that the poor things will be freezing one moment and burning the next. For compensation I go and pretend to work in the polytunnel, so we can all warm up together. Often I’m down to a vest and leggings and then set off out into the garden leaving shirts and jackets hanging from the hooks now rigged up around the frame (oh how proud am I of my tidy tunnel!) and then have to run back minutes later having underestimated the nip in the March wind. But I should be planning the new flower beds in the meantime. My dear and knowledgeable neighbour occasionally asks me, with a knowing twinkle in his eye, where is my garden plan? He suspects, I know, that what I have is a piece of paper with a blank outline and an enormous number of plant names scattered in the margin with question marks. This is in fact the case. But looking at this  picture from last year I think at least I’ll start thinking about the colours for the bottom bed, and get the annuals seeds lined up with a plan in mind. The gaura was an unexpected success. It’s down as too unreliable in the Piet Oudolf book on special plants, but it LOVED its spot in the sun (though the whole garden is in the sun. There’s not a blessed shady spot anywhere, yet) and coped with all the sea winds blasting in from the Cricket ridge with not a care. And, by god, it’s still there this spring. So it’s staying. And I’m planting more. Fingers crossed. And fingers crossed I can find the 3 Munstead Wood roses that I bought bare root this winter and heeled in somewhere in the garden while I made my mind up where to plant them. EVERY time I think I’ll remember something important, and EVERY time I curse when I can’t. If I offer my neighbour a glass of wine one sunny evening he might be persuaded to help me in my ignorance on what else I can use to fill up that border, which I every so often dig a tiny bit bigger. Can’t have too many blooms, I say. Thank god for Higgledy Gardens.