A few days ago, I put something on instagram about how my lives fit together. I have two selves. For many years, they even had different names. This week marks ten whole years of being a child protection expert witness, and twenty years of being a psychologist. One of the most blissful things about being a flower grower (or a florist, or flower farmer, or seed-monger, however I chose to introduce myself on the day) is that I avoid that awful missed beat that I get when I introduce myself to people as a clinical psychologist. A look of fear always flashes in their eyes. Often fear with intrigue, often fear with sympathy that I have such a grim job, sometimes fear with a intake of breath which indicates that they are about to ask for advice, for impromptu therapy. But what people are really thinking, and a few people are brave enough to say, is 'can you tell what I'm thinking?'.

I can then count the beats to the next thing, that it must be so lovely to have the flowers, to have the bliss of such loveliness as an antidote to the job. And it is. It is. But having a business comes with its own challenges. I post my instagram captions at 6am. I pack orders late into the night. I can answer an email and reply to three social media comments in the time it takes to walk from my car to my office door. I can be waiting to give evidence outside a courtroom, be typing a report, and ordering envelopes at the same time. My days veer between moments of high drama, the bearing witness to intense pain, contributing to life-course altering decisions, and trying to remember if I have enough dara seed left or wondering if anyone will book workshops with me. I have become chameleonic. I can leave Swindon or Plymouth or Bristol court in a full suit, and get out at Niwaki or VV Rouleaux or Midgley Green or the wholesalers looking like a florist. The feelings don't always change so fast though. The stories people tell me stay with me. The grief. The damage. The stories of the children most of all.

Flowers help of course. But sometimes only dogs will do.

Even in a suit, my dirty nails always give me away.

10th September. I drive out of Bristol away from the M5. Towards the fields and rolling hills of the east side of Somerset, towards the edge of Wiltshire. I collect deep boxes of harvesting snips and secateurs from Niwaki in Shaftesbury. They are so beautiful I gaze at them. There are glass cases of Japanese craftsmanship, each tool perfectly tailored to its own very special role in the garden. I resist a ladder and a perfectly proportioned leather toolbelt. I do not resist a trip to Pythouse. It is as abundant as ever.

11th September. I sneak out of my office mid-morning and go a few doors up Staplegrove Road to meet Claire of Fieldware. There are racks and racks of the most beautiful crossover aprons. Linen from Baird McNutt, a Irish linen mill based next to the Kellswater river in Ballymena, the goose-egg slightly heftier than the oatmeal. The variety between the materials reflecting the scale and intimacy of their production. Waxed cotton from the Baltic Works in Dundee, stitched by seamstresses in Somerset into the crossover aprons for florists, gardeners, potters, blacksmiths and chefs. I order as many as I can in Somerset oak. The colour of my barbour. The colour of autumn.

Other things I have done this week, in no particular order.
Dusted off and worn my tweed coat. Cut beech nuts and acorns and sloes and mixed them with grapes and blackberries for a twenty first birthday party. Taken the long stems off my pumpkins and trimmed back the leaves that are shading the fruits. Carried out extensive testing and research about where the best local blackberries are. Barbecued cobs of corn and eaten them, rich with butter. Photographed the new snips and secateurs from Niwaki. Ordered kilometres of botanically dyed silk ribbon. Planned a collection for seed for plants for dying, and some for drying. (This is going to get confusing.) Put some grasses and black scabious on the website. Sent off the first of many Christmas orders to the Future Kept.

Things I have not done.
Turned my compost heap. Thinned the self-sown echinops. Top dressed the buxus beds. Mown the orchard. This list is quite long so I shall stop here, and turn your mind to more joyous things.