Journey to the Garden Centre of the Earth

Have you ever or do you know anyone who has ever bought one of these CDs of pan pipes, whale song, bird noise or other soothing relaxation sounds from a garden centre?

Me neither. So why do all garden centres stock them, in their own custom-made display cabinet – complete with wood-panelled speakers and the option to play short samples therefrom?

I must confess that I am not a keen gardener, and so cannot presume to understand the mentality of those who are. Perhaps the sound of a “Cuban spa” is the perfect way to while away the hours clipping your lawn with nail scissors. However, the only kind of “Celtic mood” garden centres evoke in me is the belligerence of a drunk Glaswegian.

I have hated going to garden centres ever since I was a boy. They’re the perfect “opportunity cost” outing – the whole time you’re there, you are thinking of how much fun you could be having almost anywhere else.

Now though, as a parent, I have discovered a whole new reason to go to garden centres. They are fantastic for kids – much cheaper and less likely to result in fights you have to apologise for than play centres.

Yesterday, while Elvira looked at the random selection of metalwork wall hangings, folio-sized picture books about the history of the Lancaster bomber, expired cough sweets and domestic chemical warfare agents on offer, I trailed around behind Roger Jr and Tancred, for whom the garden centre is the funnest place ever.

They’ve got fish and lizards in tanks you can bang on! Garden furniture you can climb on! Sheds you can hide in! Aisles you can each run in opposite directions along leaving Daddy frantically calculating which one to follow and which one to leave!

The boys had an absolutely fantastic time, and the very light staffing of doddery pensioners and couldn’t-care-less (possibly backward) teenagers you get in these places made for perfect unsupervised chaos.

I’ll tell you what ruined it though. You can never leave one of these places without the kids noticing one of those awful ride-on dinosaurs or cartoon vehicles by the exit. You know the kind. You put a quid in and it sways gently back and forth for a couple of minutes making a noise like it’s drilling through the earth’s core. Please, please, please - if anyone can understand the appeal of this most disappointing of ways to spend a pound, let me know. 

They see me rollin, they hatin