They’re getting a bit crowded.
I select the tallest from each pot and re-plant them, placing the two small sticks each of my children have written their names on into the compost of the plant they belong to.
Chatting under my breath to myself, I refer to each of the plants with the christian names of both my son and daughter as I have done throughout the growing process. If I did not live alone, someone would probably tell me that not only is talking to plants a bit odd, but talking to them as if they were actually your absent offspring is even odder.
And I would tell them to fuck off.
So they don’t feel left out, I also re-pot the remaining, less successful sunflowers, and put them and their larger siblings in the sun on the patio. They’re getting big now, and I think they’re ready to leave the house and amuse themselves outside on their own.
It’s a task I’ve been putting-off for over a week now - despite acquiring the compost, pots, bamboo cane and twine - without really knowing why. But of course the reason is obvious, as any Oliver James-reading armchair psychologist would point out:
I just don’t want them to grow up.
Silently nodding my head at my own insightfulness, I head back into my living room and gaze at my unkempt lawn. I wonder why I haven’t got round to mowing it, despite the still-boxed new lawnmower residing in the shed.
Again, the reason is obvious:
I just can’t be fucking arsed.