Yesterday was all about gardens and grandparents at the Melbourne International Flower and Garden Show.

We peered through the windows of cubby houses bigger than most apartments I've lived in, and up at bird houses not much smaller. We explored water gardens, cottage gardens, Australian gardens, edible gardens, gardens for birds, gardens for bees, gardens for native creatures, gardens for walls.

Crimson, crocheted poppies lay in stunning swathes on the banks of an entirely new lake. Under a shady avenue of trees, a grassy path meandered through waist-high fields of cornflowers that, last week, didn't exist at all.

Mannequins loomed tall inside the historic Exhibition Buildings hall, clad in foliage finery. "I like this one Mummy, it is lubly!" breathed an excited Scout, about a Druid-like hooded cape made almost entirely out of bark.

Her Nanna bought her a little terrarium to keep in her room and, out of an entire stall of adorable little mini plant-worlds, Scout managed to choose the only ugly plant. "I love this because it is pink," she explained.

Ralph pulled faces from his pram and played peek-a-boo ("peep-bo!") from underneath the hood. He crawled around the grass and tried to charm random strangers into sharing their picnics with him. He sat back down with us and ate three-quarters of a croissant, a banana, half a chocolate muffin, half a bucket of hot chips, several handfuls of blueberries, a piece of fish and half of another banana, and then looked at my coffee and my measly few crackers with cheese and said, "More?"