The other day I came in soaked and cold off my bike, to pour the water out of my boots and jump into a hot bath…only to find unexpected guests in the royal tub. Like the frog in the slowly boiling pot, I’m rubbing my chin and scratching my head: the “The Plant Sitter”, a book we used to read to our children, is proving alarmingly prescient.
I know where this comes from: the garden nymph behaviour that caused my wife to want to sleep outside by her parents’ huge oak tree is proving genetic not ephemeral. This basic nature is nurtured by two sources:
Firstly, home décor magazines (House & Leisure, Elle Deco, Visi, you name it…every month of every year going back to when ties were worn and were wide): that’s where you get these irresponsibly provocative pictures of people luxuriating in Jungle bathrooms. I have nothing against the outdoors, but isn’t it named the “outdoors” for a reason?
Secondly, Facebook plant-swopping groups: I thought nothing of my wife’s involvement at first, but now I recognize such groups are cultic and dangerous (the Moonies are tele-tubbies compared to these guys). I looked for a ringleader and statement of faith on the net. Not finding any I realize the situation is worse than I imagined; they exist as independent groups, similar to terrorist cells.
You may think I’m being alarmist, but I watched ‘Little Shop of Horrors.”
