The Ficus

It's twenty years old. I nearly killed it three weeks ago. Truth be told, Fred nearly killed it eighteen years ago.

It arrived on my doorstep the day after Fred did. It had six leaves. I took good-ish care of it. Till Fred, all two foot of him, suddenly stood himself up and tore all its branches down its wee trunk in the space of thirty seconds.

I almost died.

Tied the torn branches back to its wee trunk with cotton twine. It survived. The fluffy ends of twine are still there, sticking out the trunk.

Thought I might freshen up its potting soil a few weeks ago. So I did.

It almost died.

It hasn't ... not yet.