When I say ‘their fig tree’, I actually mean ‘my fig tree’. The only difference being the broken-down fence separating the tree from my fond embrace, but you say ‘fig’, and I say ‘FIGG’.
What sort of person would cut down a flourishing fig tree? A tree that does nothing but offer a juicy harvest and plentiful shade? A tree that gives not only to its owners, but to its neighbours and the people passing by in the back lane? A tree that provides a home and a dining table to leather-skinned bats and rainbow lorikeets?
I don’t mean to overstate things, but it’s the sort of person who has no soul. It’s like cutting down a bodhi tree, a baobab or one of those trees they obsess over in Thailand and tie bits of coloured string to.
The fig tree is, or was, a major feature of my house, you know. Who cares about a north-facing whatsit or a plum-coloured feature wall with turquoise accents? The fig tree brought its own beauty to my rather run-down yet filled with character house.
What about Figgtacular? I had only been talking about it for about two years before I actually had one. Does this mean the end of Figgtacular 09? I had already written the lyrics for the invite! Costumes! Special effects! Music selected! I WAS GOING TO MAKE MY ENTRANCE ON A DONKEY.
My dreams are all shattered – and the backyard is bare.
In other news, I had the most fabulous dream about Andre Rieu last night. He was about 6ft 8, and took me for a dazzling waltz across a garden; we pirouetted, we leapt like fauns, we grand jêté-ed, we pranced. It was brilliant.