I like plants, now. It’s my new thing. House plants and that.
I’ve recently discovered a fondness for them and have become slightly addicted to buying them to dot around my flat. I can’t believe I didn’t realise this about myself before. It’s like a switch went off in my head and now I’m a plant guy. It’s who I am.
The green-fingered amongst you might now be asking, ‘I wonder what type he goes for?’ and to those people I say ‘Dunno’. Although I’ve started buying them, often in place of actual food at the supermarket, I don’t know what they’re called or really anything about how to properly look after them.
I am the adult version of a child who wants a puppy for Christmas, but just for Christmas. But with plants. And it’s September. Solid gold analogy.
Feed me, Howard
Despite knowing nether their Latin nor Anglo-Saxon names, I have named them all. Leafy Leo, who sits proudly upon my kitchen counter, guarding the dishwasher, is the biggest. He should flower but doesn’t unfortunately. A friend told me this may be due to lack of light, but I’m sure it’s because Leo suffered a form of trauma as a sproutling. Y’see, I’m fully involved.
The same friend also recommended I talk to my plants. Obviously, it’s weird to talk to a plant, one that isn’t Audrey 2 from Little Shop of Horrors, but the carbon dioxide you’re blasting at them helps them grow, or something.
Which led to my experiment: half of my plants get a daily recounting of my day, what I did, what I’ve been thinking about, what I had for lunch, etc. The other half get a chapter of Orwell’s 1984 read out loud to them each night. I’m interested to see what difference it will have, and if half my house plants will become more socially aware.
Foxed
My kids don’t give a crap about my new-found passion. When I buy a new plant and find ‘just the right spot’ for it, I’ll enthusiastically point it out to them. ‘Look kids, a new plant. Do you like it?’ To which they typically respond, ‘Hmm. What’s for dinner?’ Still, they get very involved in the nightly book reading, and now have lots of questions about thoughtcrimes (which is a thoughtcrime in itself).
18-month-old Fox likes them, at least. While holding him up to a plant, he pats the leaves carefully and strokes his face, baby-signing that he’s being gentle. He then demands to be walked to another, to do the same, gently touching the plants and stroking his face. Then another. Then another. Then back to the first. Then oh God, why did I start doing this?
This interest in the plants is why all of mine are on higher levels. If they were in reach of the little chap they’d all be stroked into oblivion, while their soil would most probably be eaten or used to decorate my walls. He’s that kind of kid.
Human +
As well as the general pleasing aesthetic of having leafy green things festooned around the flat, I’m also benefitting from the increase in oxygen. Plants make oxygen, which is jolly kind of them, allowing we humans to exist. With more plants around me, surely the more oxygen I’ll be getting. I used the cast-iron science I gleaned from theatre degree to deduce that.
All that extra oxygen will be beneficial for my brain, and I’m soon expecting to go all Scarlett Johansson in the film Lucy and become a better human. I’m quite sure I can already move things with my mind and I can hear my neighbour’s heartbeat through the wall.
Heartbeat, or dripping tap. Either way, I’m definitely the next step in human evolution.
In conclusion
All in all, I give house plants a firm eight out of ten. I recommend them for people who like having living things around them, but who don’t want to have to clean up poo and who don’t want to have to experience the heartache of a beloved pet dying in tragic circumstances. Like a dog getting run over by a lorry right in front of you, while crossing the road with a stick in its mouth and it’s the dog’s birthday and all he wanted was for you to play with him but you were too busy with work. When plants die you just bin them and get on with your day. Actually, nine out of ten.
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