My friends will reaffirm this statement: I’m a plant-killer. I really am. No natural organism with roots or leaves ever survived under my care. Be it a window box of daisies, a pot of rosemary or a trough of Chinese bamboo. I’m not kidding. Three types of cactus died soon after they left the garden store with me. I don’t understand it. I primp them up, talk to them, water them regularly. Ok, perhaps I shouldn’t have watered the cactus regularly!
But no, not even the most hardened of desert shrubs can aspire to a long, healthy life once they have been touched by my toxic green thumbs. Yet, I remain to really love plants. I’ve long wished to have a massive garden of my own overflowing with colourful flowers, fragrant herbs, succulent fruits and leafy vegetables.
Then again, mindful of my now-infamous killing streak with an unprecedented zero survival rate, I’m provisionally confining these vegetal desires to an imagined plot until I have proven that I am not a naturally-occurring herbicide. I do get a kick out of designing this ‘little patch’ of greenery, although for now only in my head, and to help me determine the right variety of plant species that thrive together, I’m happily poring over several published works on horticulture. Including one which may well be THE perfect guide to building MY dream collection of trees and shrubbery.
Introducing The Drunken Botanist. That’s right, a gardener with a very boozy agenda.