Squelch, squelch, squelch. To the RHS Chelsea flower show with my friend Sophie, where not even the “giant sponge” of a garden designed by Tom Massey and Je Ahn for WaterAid could soak up the downpour. On the night of our visit, someone had helpfully tipped a pile of wood shavings into the river that was flowing through the outdoor displays, to form a path for those who hadn’t had the foresight to match their floral frocks with waders. But, to no avail. Pretty soon it, too, was under water. The only thing to do was to act out a certain kind of crazed Britishness, a performance involving drinking a large vat of Pimm’s while pretending not to notice your nose is dripping and your lungs are blooming with incipient pneumonia.
In the 20 years since I last visited, Chelsea has changed a lot. It feels more corporate than of old, and rather sanitised as a result: for all its prettiness, I found it hard to connect with the Bridgerton Garden, sponsored by Netflix and inspired by Penelope Featherington, a “wallflower-like character”, from the latest television series.
