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Any FRPs spent on pot plants, for either the house or the garden, is likely to be money wasted. Still, armed with this knowledge, when I took myself to the supermarket (don’t worry loyal readers, it was the middle of the day and not too busy at all) in pursuit of margarine and cotton wool, it came as somewhat of a surprise when I emerged with three, three, pots of living things. And no cotton wool (no, really).

In darker times, I took great pleasure in waiting for a pot plant to die. The time spent sat in the bath, staring blankly at a slowly browning something or other, dreading the start of the day, was in some way quite therapeutic and I look back with fond remembrance at the sacrifice the shrub corpse made.

Now, however, it is simply my inability to tend to anything that doesn’t make noise when it wants something. I forget they exist. Or, in a desperate bid to bring them back from the brink I end up over watering them. My kitchen windowsill should be a delightfully verdant collection of horticultural excellence but it seems my gardening genes were inherited from the paternal rather than the maternal line. Instead, my collection has a sinister tinge of death hemming the edges of all but the newest plants. Even the cactus is on its way out.

Then there is the outside of my domestic domain. I am unashamedly a self confessed fair weather gardener. When the sun finally emerges from behind its uniquely British veil, I get the wellies on and hack back months of growth, tantalising myself with grand ideas of design. Then, predictably, the sun is once again obscured and my trip to the garden centre is postponed. In the mean time, thanks to the virulence of mother nature, all my hard work is erased without trace.

In my mind’s eye, I see myself as a tender cultivator of bounty, able to self-sufficiently feed myself and all those dear to me, and a master of creative expression via the medium of fabulous Latin taxonomic delights. I very occasionally sit down to Gardener’s Question Time in order to indulge this fantasy and nod, knowingly, as they dispense advice on mulching, aphids or on the best adornments for well drained semi shaded soils. In reality, unfortunately, my expertise extends only as far as I know the difference between annuals and perennials (HINT: you get more FRPs for perennials).

It is hoped that in due time, my little patch of wilderness will be transformed into a charmingly unfashioned external room to be enjoyed in the more clement months of the year. If I don’t get it done by the end of this year, I believe I shall make it a resolution for the next. If it turns out I am not capable of maintaining such an arrangement, I shall take this as a sign that I probably shouldn’t apply for an allotment.

FitnePs for the first, albeit short, run in ages: +2

Total so far…

  • Karma: +17
  • FRP: +101.8
  • Relationships: +6
  • Family: +9
  • Friends: +14 [Supplementary PPs: +2]
  • Career: +8
  • Fitness: -2
  • General: +1
  • Hospitality: +3
LYRIC OF THE WEEK: AND THE SONGBIRDS KEEP SINGING LIKE THEY KNOW THE SCORE…
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