I’m the person who can’t grow anything except weeds. Kindergarten kids can grow cress on blotting paper, but give mine an hour and it looks like something no self-respecting starving cow would touch. A friend once assured me, perhaps more in hope than experience, that even I couldn’t kill a spider plant. I proved her wrong. Perhaps the unfortunate plant knew I didn’t like spiders! In a moment’s self-delusion I once bought a poinsettia and it didn’t even make it to the end of the week, let alone Christmas.

Of course, I totally let the family down. My grandpa was a gardener who could grow delicate lilies and massive marrows with the same ease. My mother was known for her ability to resurrect moribund houseplants with just a kind word and a drop of water. But not me.

I used my hayfever for an excuse. But in truth it’s never been that bad, and most plants don’t bother me in the slightest. I’ve longed for a house full of hyacinths and begonias and a garden full of carnations and marigolds. I’d settle for a few daffodils. In the end, though, I only fought a futile campaign against nettles and thistles and bought artificial flowers.

I had more on my mind yesterday than my horticultural uselessness. I’d had a massive, possibly terminal row with my significant other, and heard that they were “letting people go” at work. I wasn’t told I’d be one of them, but wasn’t optimistic.

And today would have been my Mum’s birthday. I took silk flowers to her resting place in the quiet village churchyard. She would have hated flowers withering and rotting within a couple of days. Even shop-bought flowers had it in for me! You might think I’m being neurotic, but I’m not.

Then I saw it. She always had a soft spot for the small and dainty, and told me that as a child she’d thought they were called “blue tits”, like the birds. A thousand little blue faces drank in the morning sunlight, a thousand times more beautiful than my silk roses.

Learn more about the author:

Deborah Mercer