I wasn't there but my mother swears it to be true and give her a couple of glasses of wine, and I'm sure she'll tell you. Actually, you probably won't even need the wine to get this little family secret out of her. It goes like this. My mother goes into a gardening shop and asks the sales assistant for a plant that thrives on neglect. He directs her to one which he says you couldn't kill if you tried. She should have got that in writing because I now have a brown stump in a pot on my back deck. The death-proof plant is now compost. I can't help it. I love animals. I love living surrounded by bush but actual gardening? Nope. That gene wasn't in the pool that fertilised me. This may explain why I love grasshoppers. I find them infinitely fascinating in a way no-one who likes gardening could. See one and I become the child with the Bug Catcher crawling around the yard trying to sneak up on one of the critters. My infinitely more girlie sisters would run a mile if I managed to actually catch one. Of course, I'm much too mature for a Bug Catcher now. I was sneaking around with a zoom lens instead while my infinitely more grasshopper phobic friend Alison threatened to run a mile. The years have done nothing to dampen my enthusiasm and, in fact, I reckon my ability to secure my prey has improved with time. If nothing else age has taught me one thing - patience grasshopper.
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