Lynette was (how shall we say?) an enthusiastic gardener. She frequented garden shops like a nun frequents churches. In fact one could say that Lynette’s gardening enthusiasm was bordering on the fanatically devout. There was hardly a variety of flowering plant that Lynette couldn’t resist purchasing.

She wasn’t at all keen to grow vegetables. Oh no! Gardening was a thing of beauty. It was flowers or nothing. In fact the two smallish trees she had in her garden were both prolific flowerers. There was a spectacular bright red rhododendron and a wonderful pink flowering cherry.

But it was flowering garden plants that were her pride and joy. Once a week she would come home after a foray into a garden shop with at least half a dozen plants at the height of their blossoming cycle; cyclamen, dahlias, pansies, poppies, impatiens, geraniums… you name it, Lynette at some stage had bought it. But prickly! Goodness no! No matter how beautiful a blossom, if the plant was prickly it was a no-no. But generally speaking she loved the beauty of all flowers.

It was such a pity that she lost interest in her plants once she arrived home. Her backyard was strewn with pots of dead, unwatered, uncared-for plants.