Hating Living Things

Secretly, I kind of hate flowers. And I feel bad about hating them…so I guess you could say that I hate the level of hate I have for them. I should just go and live in a castle on a hill where it’s always stormy and there are lightning strikes and rumbles of thunder every time you say my name. I’ll take on the title of ‘Count’, the local kids will be afraid of the castle and they’ll know me as something like ‘Count Misery-Guts’ or ‘Count Flower-Killer’, because the grounds will be completely grey and bare. Maybe there will also be a nursery rhyme about how I’m grouchy and miserable and how I’m going to die one day by falling down the stairs and hitting my head on every step, bump, bump, bumpity-bumpity.

I can’t help it. My neighbour is trying to tell me all the places to buy spring flowering bulbs online, and she talks my ear off about it every single time we bump into each other (and she’s in her front garden a LOT). I have to stealth in and out of the house by jumping the fence if I want to avoid her. And I see her planting daffodils and tulips and I just think…hmm, nah. I like my front garden the way it is: green grass, and one plain tree right in the middle. It’s nice, it’s simple, it’s ordered, and there aren’t little bits of colour sprouting everywhere to mess it up. Having the place coated in roses and hyacinths is great for Little Miss Green Fingers next door…mostly. They aggravate my hay fever a little bit, but I wouldn’t tell her. If she ever knew that I wasn’t a flower fan, it would cause one of two things: either she’d faint and I’d maybe be responsible for her death by heart attack, or she’d buy daffodil bulbs and keep putting them on my doorstep until I finally submitted and tried planting them.

Any cheap castles going in Melbourne? Ones with sweeping staircases and gossiping locals?