Special Report: Fatima vs Human: Round 47

This is no longer gardening.
This is a blood feud.

Fatima the Fatsia has declared war on my sanity and she is winning on every front. Snow? She collapses like a Victorian lady with the vapours. Heatwave? She wilts into a soggy green puddle and stares at me accusingly through the kitchen window. I water her, I feed her, I sing her lullabies (metaphorically), and she still finds new and creative ways to look like she’s one sunbeam away from death.Current score:

• Fatima: 47 dramatic performances, 3 Oscar nominations, 1 BAFTA for “Best Supporting Drama Queen in a Border”
• Me: Several rescue missions, expensive shade cloth, pathetic canes that snapped like matchsticks, and now seriously considering buying her a fucking patio umbrella like she’s on a package holiday to Benidorm

At this point I have two possible outcomes:

1. She survives the summer and I develop a nervous twitch every time I look at a large-leafed plant.
2. I finally snap, dig her up at 3am, and plant her in the same grave as Caroline with full military honours and a little sign that says “She had it coming.”

There is no middle ground anymore.

The sad ghost sheet is currently draped over her like a budget haunted house decoration. The thin canes laughed at my attempts to make them useful and immediately surrendered. Tomorrow new bird feeding station poles arrive — which I will almost certainly press into service as makeshift parasol supports because this has become my life now.Fatima, if you’re reading this (and I’m 90% sure you can), just know this:I brought you into this garden.
I can take you out of it.(But I probably won’t, because I’m a sucker and you look quite pretty when you’re not trying to die on me.)

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