Sunday, 16 August 2009


P My very last sprig of Morning Glory is gone, just like that. It was finally thriving and now it has ceased to be.
P There were a few Dandelion shoots in a pot by the railing; My Quail are insanely fond of the leaves. That pot now sits empty but for a few measly weeds.
P The Lily of the Nile was all over the place, now it is cut down to a few stems.
P This is but part of the ghastly spectacle with which I was faced as I got to the kitchen balcony this morning; I simply cannot bear to describe anything further.
P Oh, the pain...
P I do know the maid to be quite well-intentioned, the poor fool, but why must this keep happening?
P It would seem that my life has been plagued by this sort of thing: I take an interest in something and make an effort, only to see the fruits of my labours crushed or torn apart before my very eyes; what follows is a long period of self-pity so overwhelming that I cannot bring myself to commit to anything meaningful.
P Today was different. I beheld the devastation before me but charged onwards and watered the plants. All of them, even the empty pots.
P They need me to live.
P And then I went and watered the ones in the living room, which were mercifully untouched, and went about my usual dealings.
P Perhaps this is a good sign, however painful. It could be that I grow wiser.
P The maid shall still get a telling off, though.