Plants hate me. Every pot plant or flower bouquet I have ever had turned into a dry arrangement, no matter how much water, plant food and whatnot I gave it.
I was recently given a violet and watered it according to instructions. It’s on its last legs.
As for gardens, I prefer them a bit wild and overgrown, full of shrubs and trees. Flower beds and rose bushes are not for me. In our house the roles are well-defined. My husband does the gardening, I do the appreciating.
One morning I decided to give it a try. I was sure that I would benefit from the ‘therapeutic exercise’.
I bought the plants, stones and some other decorative stuff and set out in a little patch of about 2m x 1m. Therapeutic schmerapeutic! The more time I spent there the angrier I got. Firstly, it was hot. Secondly, I had no understanding on how they wanted to be arranged or how far apart. Stuff like that.
I think it took about four hours and by the time I had finished, my husband was ready to send me off on a broomstick.
We have similar plants to the ones I planted elsewhere in the garden and they are as happy as pie. Mine looks scruffy and sad. And I did plant them too close together, the whole bed looks shabby.
I’ve decided not to meddle in the garden again, it is bad for my mental health. Neither do I buy pot plants. When I receive one as a gift, I tend and water. And wait for it to give up its little plant ghost.