It’s a dull early summer evening in suburban Dublin.  I’m in my favourite room – the back garden; having just emerged from my second favourite room – the greenhouse. The flowers on the apple, pear and plum trees have been replaced with miniature fruits; their day has yet to come. Mad marigolds appear randomly, just the way I like it. The bean poles are ready to be embraced and climbed by impatient tendrils. Volunteer potato plants appear in the most unexpected of places. The herbs are ungovernable. So, all is good then, and it is on an evening such as this that I am eternally grateful to the intrepid plant hunters who scoured the four corners of the earth to make our little corners all the more colourful and interesting.  If it wasn’t for them, the only source of colour in my humble yard would be the motley collection on the clothesline.