Plastic foliage abounds, and I don’t get it. Here we are, in the depths of the countryside, surrounded by trees and with florists in abundance, yet there seems to be a predeliction for plastic. Plastic of the type that mysteriously allows one to purchase essentials and frivolities, yes I do get. Even plastic greenery where plantlife cannot thrive, perhaps. But here, in leafy Scotland?
My first flirtation with plastic was last winter, when after several weeks of religiously watering the plant in my bedroom twice weekly, I noticed it wasn’t flowering. I also noticed it was plastic, albeit a good likeness (obviously, I would hardly deliberately water an imposter).
A digression for a moment: on arrival last week, I saw that Jeanette had put a vase of towering pussy willows in the dining room – I remembered she had admired the ones I had bought last year, and thanked her for her thoughtfulness in getting some more.
“Och, nae,” she said. “They’re the ones ye left last year.”
So, really, who needs plastic if real ones last 12 months?
Scottish thriftiness around here even extends to my Christmas tree. We had plans to crank up our 4WDs and go on an expedition into Blairgowrie on Sunday to buy a (real) tree. Then Gordon remembered that he had in fact planted out last year’s tree. Rather than waste money on a new one, he would recycle the old one. I told him I would leave the cottage open so he could bring it in, and then I headed off to do some shopping.
Half way to Blairgowrie, I had a horrible thought. I had left Hot Sex – which has a bright lurid in-your-face-screaming-notice-me pink cover – on the coffee table in my living room, right next to where I had cleared a space for the tree. What sort of woman was Gordon to think I am? I tried out a few possible explanations but none of them sounded quite plausible.
“Um, that book, Hot Sex, it’s not mine, it’s your wife’s” (could get me into trouble with Jeanette)
“ Ha ha! Bet you wondered about that book on the table! Just something I’m promoting for a client” (unlikely story)
When I got home, Gordon had just brought in my tree which was in a state of petrification and was missing its top branches, but all in all, with some judicious decorations, once thawed, I thought it would do nicely.
“Oh,” I said casually, “You must have wondered about the book ....”
“What book?” said Gordon. Maybe he was being deliberately obtuse but he didn’t wink or frown or stutter so I decided to drop the matter pronto rather than wade into deep water.
As I approached the village shop I saw that the fairy lights and waving santa had been installed. Through the window I saw Gilmore and Mahri alongside a large Christmas tree which appeared to have lost its branches down one side. I went to say hello and saw that they were painstakingly straightening out the plastic fronds! Meanwhile, outside the shop, propped up against the wall, stood a variety of Norwegian pines for sale. It doesn’t make any sense to me.
But the instance that takes the biscuit is a wedding Jeanette recently attended. The bride had a beautiful bouquet of flowers which she carefully laid on an antique desk so she could sign the wedding register. As Jeanette leaned forward to admire the flowers, she noticed on the base a barcode and price sticker. Yup - fake!
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