How heartless is the human spirit each January. Christmas trees, shedding needles like tears, are left out in the cold for disposal. Less visible, but no less callous, is the discarding of poinsettias. Redder than Santa’s outfit, they radiate great cheeriness over Christmas before dreary January douses their flames. Into the bin the poor things go, not even honoured with a public chipping as a send-off. How callous we are.
But not me: I have stuck with the poinsettia I bought not last Christmas, nor the one before that, but the one before that; Christmas 2021. Throughout 2022, I cared for it with great diligence – feeding, watering, chatting, fondling and so on. I vaguely assumed it would reward my loyalty with a blazing return to glory come Christmas. But nothing. At this point, a lesser man would surely have dumped it, but not me. This underperforming poinsettia and I were in it for the long term.
