Read by Michael Flamel

Plants are wreaking havoc on my marriage. All kinds of plants. Geraniums. Begonias. Aloe Vera. Bamboo. Rubber plants. They’ve invaded my home, turning it into a botanical garden. My wife’s newfound passion has transformed her into a green-thumbed enthusiast, leaving me feeling like a reluctant member of the green-fingered brigade. But what if another spouse faced the same dilemma, staunchly believing plants belong in the ground, not in the house? Would he join his partner in the dirt for the sake of harmony? Not quite as you’d expect. Hence the title of my short story: “Plants Are Ruining My Marriage”.

Plants are ruining my marriage. All kinds of plants. Geraniums. Begonias. Aloe Vera. Bamboo. Rubber plants. They’re my wife’s latest passion. And they’re everywhere! Suspended from ceilings. Hanging in halls. Sitting on shelves. Even my beloved television is engulfed in greenery. I’m half expecting some botanist to pop up among the ferns and give an impromptu lecture on plants native to my area. They are her pets. But to me, they are like an alien species that have invaded my home watching my every move. And the one that irks the most is the cactus in the bathroom that constantly stares at me as I try to go about my business. However, the final straw came when I was sitting at the kitchen table doing the crossword and became aware of the aptly named spider plant that was hanging from the ceiling and looking over my shoulder. I could swear I could hear it smirk as I struggled with 2 down and 3 across. Now, even my nightmares are peopled with plants and shrubs that chase after me with a view to capturing and devouring me. You can see, therefore, I’m as much at home in a greenhouse as a vegetarian in an abattoir. But this whole plant business came to a head last week, when I had the following conversation – for want of a better word – with my wife, as she was carrying out a post-mortem on a geranium.

“This geranium wasn’t well for a long time,” says she.

“I’m not too well myself,” says I.

“A little Phostrogen is a great tonic,” says she.

“I don’t like Phostrogen,” says I.

“Did wonders for the cactus,” says she.

“I’m not a cactus,” says I. “And furthermore, I think I’m going to die.”

“Ah well,” she sighed. “I’ll just have to get a replacement.”

That was it. The final humiliation! I decided there and then to have the matter resolved through the courts. The judge will have no trouble passing judgment when he hears the names of the witnesses for the prosecution: Busy Lizzie. and Dumb Cane – criminal types if ever there were. But the icing on the cake will come when His Honor adjudicates on the question of custody.

“And you, Mr. C, can keep the children. While you, Mrs. C, can keep the plants.”

Poetic justice!

About the Author: Frank Comiskey resides in Portmarnock, County Dublin, Ireland. His knack for finding humor in the everyday chaos of life is evident in his writing. When he’s not busy navigating the challenges of a plant-filled home, Frank enjoys spending time with his family and indulging in his other hobbies, which notably do not include gardening.