Christmas at Chatterley is a joy unbound. For as long as I can remember the great and the good have descended here for Christmas lunch and a walk in the gardens as a respite from the festive melee. In my time I’ve fed turkey to 4 PMs (Churchill twice, Eden, Macmillan and Major), foreign digs (Bhutto, Amin, the Aga Khan and his wife Chaka) authors (Forster, Greene, Clancy), rock stars (Jagger, Lennon, Roussos). You name them, they’ll have passed through these hallowed halls.

Ice Cube, embarrassed!

As a result I’ve been given some simply stunning Christmas presents; A Purdy from Germaine Greer, a sealskin gilet from Sting and methadone from Frank Sinatra. The most of generous prezzie ever, ever, ever though was from Public Enemy Front Man Ice Cube, who called ahead on Christmas Eve, to ask what I’d like. I modestly suggested something to put my hoes in and he gave me a Mercedes! A real mix up but a wonderful ride.

Gardening presents are all well and good but useless if you’ve no land. If you need to get a garden mad chum a present I suggest a plot of land. According to my chum, the Duke of Abercorn, Norfolk is on the market.

Happy Shopping!

Ever,

JC x

Tip of the Day: Much has been written about the beastly spread of Honey Fungus… Leveling turf? Blah. Grinding out dead stumps? Snore. I suggest taking one of one’s more elderly pets (NB must be bigger than hedgehog but smaller than a horse – a venerable Dandy Dinmont would be perfect!) and after a last cuddle and final steak supper, burning it in kerosene on the spot of aforementioned canker. The animal’s soul will keep cheeky fungus at bay for at least five years.

Honey Fungus. NOT a venereal disease.

3. The Nelson Piquet – Beautiful, tough and versatile – like Matthew Kelly.

2. Black Eyed Susans – the tenderest of plants with the aroma of a Libyan sheep fight.

And Number 1! Well, it could only the Rusty Whorehound. The name alone deserves a drink.

Do drop me a line and let me know your favourite plants of the year. I’ll most probably ignore your missive but give me the option, do!

Ever,

Jen x

Tip of the day: Inspired by a simply stunning sunrise this morning, my thoughts were these. Yes, there’s more than enough to do – removing dying hedge plants, tidying up perennials etc. – but sometimes you must just stop, look, smell and listen, whether you’re surveying your allotment or your 10,000 acre estate and award winning garden, like me.

Brando - Trifle Guzzler!

Now. Much jollity! I became a member of Twitter yesterday and already have a host of new garden-loving chums. It’s quite dear really. My plan is to garner enough electric friends and then throw an enormous party at Chatterley. It will be an hoot!

One has to come to terms with Twitter slang, or ‘twang’ if you will. We had a jargonese of our very own at Chatterley, instigated by Lord Cavendish when guests came to dine…

FHB – Family Hold Back. Used when cook had prepared enough guinea fowl, or own one occasion when Marlon Brando charged through a trifle designed for twenty, on his very own.

MIK – More in Kitchen. On the Brando occasion, Lord C whispered FHB, but cook whispered back MIK. She had prepared a back-up trifle. Phewf!

NQOCD – Not quite our class dear. Used regularly for most guests including that grocer’s daughter, Thatcher.

NWA - HKLP!

Work can wait until the tomorrow. Today, I say, enjoy.

Ever,

Jen

Demoralised

Tip of the day: Even on a beautiful November day, such as today, the cold can demoralise your gardening staff. They simply must be encouraged. Here’s my 4 point plan.

1. A pair of gloves for everyone. After three years service.

2. A cheering word to each gardener, once a week and NO MORE. E.g. “Well done Barraclough, you really are fantastic at mulching. Despite your disability. **

3. Friday afternoon fun. I’ve always favoured inviting in the gardeners for a glass of Rum Ba-Ba and a hand of Canasta. Maximum 1/2 hour.

4. A late start on Sunday. 6 am not 5.

Incentivised!

Generous I know, but if you want a world beating garden, like Chatterley, you’ve simply got to spread the love.

Ever,

Jennifer

** Barraclough has no arms and mulches by thashing his body well-rotted manure.

I feel a rotten egg on two counts. Firstly it’s been an age since last posting. Secondly, it was my birthday yesterday. Sore head. Plenty of hot wine followed by sherry bangers and rounded of the night with gin and weedol. Fun. But dangerous.

A servant prepares for a 'night out'.

Now then, with the evenings turning colder and frost a concern, one must make provision for your root vegetables. Many experts propose laying a foot of straw over them. I would suggest using fat servants. Strip them naked to spread the warmth and leave overnight in a cold garden. They may even shed a pound or two. A happy outcome for all involved.

As I’ve promised my New York publisher, Ezekial Nusbaum, I’ll post at least 3 times a week, you’ll be hearing from me very shortly. In the meantime, defrock a pleb and protect those veggies!

Ever,

J-Clar

Might I suggest building your bonfire with any spare sandal wood, then peppering it with the odd Rosemary clump. The smell is simply divine. Like Pot Pourri. On fire.

Consulting my diary, I’m reminded of Martin Luther King visiting Chatterley on Bonfire Night in 1965. He was a charming man, very gracious and tall, my goodness! There was an awful mix up when the local druid fraternity turned up in their white garb to light the fire and throw on the Guy (an ancient Chatterley tradition). Poor Mr King nearly ran for the hills. However social disaster was averted when we plied him gluwein and let him win at Canasta. It was very jolly.

He never wrote to say thank you.

Happy BN everyone.

Ever,

Jenjen

The land girls were slags

Still, growing your own is a wonderful pastime and I shall be commencing a campaign to get local children of East Sussex. Watch this space.

Ever,

Jen

” just bought a terraced house in Sands End, Fulham, with a wild overgrown 42 foot garden”

Well, bully for you Mr Chappell. No one likes a bragger. He goes on to ask (rudely, in my opinion)…

Any tips on basic steps to clear it?

The Bastard Willow

Well Mr Chappell, of course I’m used to working in much more palatial spaces but I can definitely recommend a herbaceous border. It can be the jewel in the crown of any garden, particularly ones that are less than 17,000 square metres in size. For a really dazzling show start with a focal point, a Bastard Willow or a Chocolate Whorehound should grind the monkey.

Then disseminate outwards with a riot of Curly Rape, Pig Nuts and Ayrton Sennas. Carve through-lines with Fuller’s Bunyons and bidi-bidi and outrim with a Cushion Panther. And you’re done. Any questions you may have about plant combinations, I’m all ears.

Ever,

Jennifer

Darling Pa, after too much Bugger's Milk!

Bugger’s Milk, if you don’t know it, is a Navy drink. My darling Pa drank 3 pints before we lost the Battle of Jutland. The Ingredients: 2 tbl spoons bovril, 10 fl oz cooking sherry, whipped cream.

Hope this helps.

Ever, Jennifer

Fat, greedy THIEF!

June 2nd 1940

Winston Churchill came for tea today. He’s an old mucker of Lord Cavendish (they were both rusticated from Harrow for liberating the school goat and letting it loose in the Gymnasia!) Lord C introduced us as ‘my wonderful gardening girls’ and S and I went as red as apples.

I was agog at how small and fat the PM was (about 4 foot 5!!!), so short in fact that he accidentally twanged my knocker with his pipe as he passed a drop scone. He looked troubled though and later Lord C told us he had ‘a lot on his plate.’ I’ll say! He scoffed 14 drop scones in as many minutes and very well licked his knife.

Eventually Mr Churchill asked us where we found the strength to awake every day and continue weeding and I rather boldly stated that weeds were our enemy, and we shall fight them on the beaches, and on the land, we shall fight them in the fields and in the hills. We shall never surrender. The British Prime Minister raised a half smile and Sylvia thinks I impressed him awfully.

Oh Frabjous day! Calloo! Callay!

June 4th 1940

Winston Churchill stole my speech! The very cheek of it! Scone-gobbling, knocker-twanging thief! He’s just delivered MY speech to House of Commons about someone called Duncan. I’m livid.

Lord C was kind and suggested was it ever thus. Apparently when they were at school, young Winston regularly stole matron’s buns from her massive undercroft.

Grrrrrrr.