Gardening Leave

‘We can barely look

after ourselves, what makes you think we could look after one of them?”

“Maybe this is the push we need. Just look at them — they need a home.”

“But you’re always at work — I’m the one whose life would change. Holidays would be a thing of the past, you know.”

“Please, Ciara. We have to do this. We can’t just walk away.”

Bae and I were standing in front of the world’s saddest display of sage plants. The heatwave had rendered them parched and pathetic — the stickers that said, “Manager’s Discount: €1” told us that even the shop had given up on them. Bae was cradling the smallest and most sorrowful of the plants, gazing into its drooping brown leaves with beatific tenderness.

“Fine,” I said, “But I’m not dealing with it.”

Like anyone born in the late 1980s to early 1990s, I love a plant. In theory. They improve the air quality in your crappy rented flat! They’re good for your mental health! They take us away from our screens! They look dope on Instagram!

When a fellow millennial comes round for dinner (“Oh, just some Ottolenghi bits! No trouble! Vegetarian, obv. Could you pick up pomegranate molasses on the way?”) they are more likely to arrive with a succulent in a copper pot than a bottle of Casillero del Diablo or some After Eights. And it’s lovely. But I don’t know what to do with cacti.

I’m not an intuitive plant-mother; how much sunlight is too much sunlight? Is using plant food overbearing and pushy? I fear, like the child who hugs their pet rabbit to death, I love my plants too much. Surely over-watering is an urban myth. Plants love water!

Every day I wake up with a heavy heart, wondering how many leaves my unidentified gift-plants will have shed in the night, wondering when I should give up, when I should just let go.

But sometimes a miracle occurs that makes it all worthwhile. The elation when we blindly nursed that tiny sweet sage back to precarious health? I wish we’d bought 10 of the miserable bastards.