Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s Offer
When I turned on the lights the place came out of the darkness like an animal caught in the headlamps of a car. All the plants whose names I’d forgotten reproached me silently; the Russian vine looked moribund. ‘Sorry,’ I said. I filled a jug and poured water into the vine’s pot but the water ran through the dry soil and dripped on to the floor. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ I said.
Poofter, whispered the cyclamen.
And then:
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