I, as you may have gathered from those previous examples of lovely metaphor, don't really know how to look after a fern tree. Sure, watering it seems like a good idea, but how often? How much? Does it only accept bottled water or does it prefer sparkling? I don't have the answers! Google told me to make sure "the soil is damp," which I do. It is damp. Success, surely! But then I notice some of the leaves are going droopy. It's colour is off. It looks like it's got man flu. I get worried. Like an overbearing parent at the first sign of their sheltered, likely obese child sneezing, I pull out the plant equivalent of a trip to the doctors and ring up my dad.
"Dad!" I say, as one does when on the phone to their dad. "My fern tree's leaves are looking a bit unwell!" I continue, as one does when the leaves on their fern tree are looking a bit unwell.
"Have you watered it?"
"Yes Dad! I keep the soil damp like it says!"
"Well how much do you water it?"
"Enough to keep the soil damp Dad, like it says!"
You can normally tell by this point in a conversation with my dad just how much he knows what he's talking about. It is clear to me by now that he knows little. This next line confirms it:
"Maybe you should Google it."
"Thanks Dad!"
Google has imparted it's wisdom. I have acted upon it. The plant still looks a bit peaky. It gets sunlight, it gets water, it gets air and fun and enough compliments to stop it getting depressed. I talk to it, I joke with it, it helps me with my work and I do my best to make it feel included. After all, it is the best of all my plant friends and the fact it is also the only plant friend I have should not belittle this statement.
Sometimes at night I struggle to sleep. I say this is because I'm such a big thinker, that I have visions and ideas flying round my brain at all hours.
I say this.
I lie.
It's plant worry keeping me awake.