And Then A Plant….

No, not you this time Mr Cummerbund, a proper plant. A plant her indoors got, as a young tuber, {A little clarification: The plant was a young tuber, not her indoors.} from a pound shop last year and this year has gone done that growing thingy wot plants do and she’s most taken with it. As, indeed, am I – but to a far, far lesser degree. It’s just a plant, right?
”Let’s go get more of this.” She said, standing proudly by the plant soaking up it’s extremely nice scent.
”That we can. What’s it called?” I asked, having not a clue myself and suspecting she didn’t have a clue either.
”A flower.”
”Right. Up to a point that’s spot on but I’m suspecting the store staff will need a little more information to go on. I’m pretty sure, ‘I want a flower’ won’t hack it. Tell you what; I’ll take his picture and we can go to one of they big garden centres, you know, the ones that sell birthday cards, funny lookin’ bits of wrought iron, toys, furniture, tacky ornaments and have  big cafes serving traditional British curries, and try, ‘I want a flower like this’. Depending on the Saturday Surliness quotient of the staff, we could throw in a few ‘pleases’ and thank-youses’ along the wayses.”

We went round three huge garden centres, all of which, yet again, gave me pause to reflect on the fact that there’s so much stuff I’d never realized I’ll never need, and no member of staff, old or young, had a clue what the flower may be.

This is the fellow if anyone has an idea wot it may be. The pink bit in the second picture is, I believe, a rose and it jumped into the frame just as I pressed the camera trigger.

                            

Another point worthy of mention is that my photographic skills are on a par with my oil painting skills. Namely rubbish.  You may have come to that conclusion without my prompting.

Quote;  Robert A. Heinlein.

“Butterflies are not insects,' Captain John Sterling said soberly. 'They are self-propelled flowers.”