Image by Ophelia King
We visited a plant shop ("I think it's called like a guy's name or something") on a drizzly, hungover Sunday afternoon. It was a long weekend and the geriatric gardening gang was out in full force. I tried to shake off my headache and the feeling that I didn't belong there by wandering up and down the narrow paths, which mostly just resulted in being overwhelmed about having to choose just one plant. We gathered up $300 worth of new botanics for the Fuzzy backyard (and a lil cactus for my room!) in two wheelbarrows, only to be told once we finally reached the till that they only accept cheques or cash. What is this, 1993? Cue a frantic rush to the nearest ATM five minutes away. I stayed behind, keeping an eye on our new purchases, engulfed by greenery, soothed and content.