Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Green Fingers

…. Here he comes again. Look at the slob, grubby trousers, grubby fleece, no shoes just those stupid fluorescent red clogs. What a jerk. I see he’s cut his hair at last. A bit better at least. And look at me, all this time getting my self ready, a touch of red here, a frill there shoulders back stomach in stand up straight lad. Makes me wonder why I bother. He hardly looks at me anyway. Look at him. Watering can in hand staring off into space. What does he see I wonder? What does he think about? DOES he even think? He must do because every now and then he speaks and does things.
Ah, wait! He moves. Behold bipedal movement! Oh very clever! No, he’s stopped again. Staring off toward the mountains again. Prat. Come on you twat! Wake up. Right he’s off. Get-a-move-on! What? filling up the watering can again? Oh no not again! He’s not going to pour all that water over me again is he. Hold on the fertilizer you toad! He did it yesterday morning too… and then it rained. I’m soaked. Read the books you pillock. Oy you…! Oiiy…!
Used to be gardener so he says. I noticed yesterday he dug out the bush he killed. Nandina. Was bloody old too, at least 15 years. We got on quite well. Then I saw him scratch his head, cut off all the branches and stick it back home in the flower pot. It’ll never pickup. I mean, honestly, it’s better off dead. You can’t live without water. Then he gets onto the green fingers trip and soaks you like now, everyday, and adds fertilizers until you’re so sick of overeating, you feel heavy and what with the heat and all you keel over. Then what does to sod do? Gives you more water, at lunch time, then it get all humid. Then you really do keel over. Read the books slughead! Then you get the stick and those green twisty bits of wire which he twists round your neck to keep you upright so that you can hardly breathe.
Thank god for the night. He goes in that long box thing of his at night and we all get a breather. You can still hear his Bharti music blaring out though. How the little kid stands it is anybody’s guess.
I notice the box bushes kicked the bucket too. Pity. Unceremoniously dumped down amongst the big trees I suppose. Some people really shouldn’t be allowed to keep flowers. A plant is not just for christmust, it’s for its life…or something.
When I was a baby he kept shouting “grow whatever you are, grow”. And then when I did all he said was “Uh! Tulip!” What a prat. Don’t you like tulips Mr. Sapiens? Oh look, he’s forgotten me. Thank god for that, off to drown some other poor plant I suppose. Yep, geraniums poor buggers. One season they lasted. One season. It’s murder.
Go on, get off out of it! Get on with something else, at least we’re all be safe for a bit then.
Mind you he’s getting better. It’s jerks like him that cause colour in us flowers. The more colourful we are the more he remembers to look after us. I pity anything non-flowering mind you I see that he’s now started planting everything in the earth instead of pots. ‘Bout time too! Perhaps we’ll survive a bit longer now. Jerk.

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