Oh, one very quick correction. The garden you mention has nothing to do with F S Whinkla. He lives in a rather substantial run-down cabin on the cusp of an alkali lake without a shoreline. He spends almost all his free moments fishing for ghosts with tangled words embroidered on a line of red silk. To sip words with him by candlelight is a delight, and occasionally, if the Tarot is sympathetic, he’ll invite you to share a spicy curry of ideas and a chutney bulging with artistic thoughts. But Whinkla does not garden, in the accepted sense of the word.