Plants keep me cool in the flat and they don’t mind if I smoke.
Cactus, cheese, rubber, spider, succulent, savoury, salt, vinegar, sweet and sour, lemon and lime.
I treat them all the same. Put near window and forget to water. The leaves go brown. I give them a drink, apologise, murmuring softly. Not all the time, sure. That would be weird.
The plants attract flies, lots of them. Wee tiny fruit flies that hover round the bin for a day. Other ones which grow into fat bluebottles vibrating round the room, banging their heads against the window.
I keep the window open so they can fly away but they never do. They must like it here, it must feel like home, with the tobacco haze and the rotting food.
The plants will die eventually but I’ll put that day off as long as possible, do what I can to keep them healthy, keep them flowering and blossoming and free of aphids.
It’s like a metaphor, I suppose, for my own life.
Keep breathing at all costs. Do everything I can not to lose the will to live. Ensure proper drainage and ventilation.
Anybody got any quinoa?