I’m not a plant person.
I suppose that’s far better than not being a people person. Or not being a dog person. Or a cat person. (For the record, I am two of the three. I’ll let you guess.)
It’s not that plants and I have a bad relationship (except for blackberry bushes. Those assholes hate me), it’s just that we aren’t compatible. I shouldn’t be around anything that depends on me for nourishment, yet will quietly die without so much as a scream or a whimper.
The only house plant that we have is a poor, limp … you know what? I don’t even know what kind of plant it is. It’s a poor, limp, long-suffering green thing named Nigel.
But after a visit to Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, just outside of Cape Town, I started thinking that maybe, maybe I could be a plant lover. Or, at the very least, a plant liker. Or maybe just less of a systematic plant-murderer (for Nigel is the sole survivor in a veritable chlorophyll-tinged bloodbath).