There was, of course, a time when I would have welcomed with open arms the ability to create, nurture and sustain all floral varieties. Florists were heroes to me, people to be worshiped and seek advice from. Nature was wonderful and life was simple.
But that was then. Those days of innocence have past and I am left with the intolerable skill of horticulture. It seems everything I touch thrives. These past few months have seen an influx of floral growth, I cannot approach something without it blooming and producing some form of colourful display of affection. Even the banana plant at work (not native to Cornwall) that I sit next to has sprouted a new sapling. Such ability has made me fear the future, does it stop? I fear the future in the same way I fear having to put my foot in a shoe I know is soaking wet. Or having to move past a rather large moth that has placed itself immorally on the door. I also fear the inevitable dick tv show in which retarded members of the public must create a bouquet/garden in which to impress a panel of dicks, which then moves on to having to impress a panel of even more retarded members of public who vote by pressing their fat Pringle greased fingers against their phones. The future may be full of blossom, but it aint pretty.
Or perhaps I have missed the signs? Perhaps the flowers adore me romantically? Their sudden colour is an attempt to seduce me, in the hope that I will pollinate them? Spreading their seed across the greenery of England? How could I have been so blind to their advances!!
Can I lose my green fingers? Does that happen? Or is it like the bike thing?