Flowers I don't grow

Dahlias. Beautiful flowers. In America - pronounced DAH-lee-ahs, in England DAYL-ee-ahs. Whichever way, I don't grow them. I have very little space in my garden, even less with the reliable full, full sun that they need. They can be prone to slugs and snails. And most importantly the gardening advice is that you should pull up the tubers every autumn, store them in sand in a cool, dry place and replant them every year. I can't be bothered. Too much work.

But they are tempting. So tempting. One year I arrived at a London Royal Horticultural Society flower show to see people leaving with deep, dark red flowers. Perfect in form. Covetable. Some men were crouching on the stoop outside the entrance, smoking. One had this same plant bundled at his feet, the beautiful chocolately, velvety red flower peeping out of the bag.

"What is that?" I breathed.
"Dahlia," the man said. He met my eyes and held them. Slowly, he spoke, his tongue caressing the name "Dahlia, Dark Desire."

And that's as racy as it gets at the flower show. I nearly bought one, but they had all sold out. But I'm a married woman and there's no telling what trouble I avoided on the way home with that one.

I caught this dahlia in the park this weekend. Although softer and more romantic, it's still tempting.