As a self-confessed spoilt only child, I often make demands on my poor parents. I'd been harassing them about a sad and droopy bougainvillea that looked ready to shuffle into the compost bin. They seemed determined to keep abusing it. Then I had a bad day involving a melted breast pump, and my dad turned up with the sorry specimen. A new pot, plenty of sunshine, and it's laden with these heavy technicolour pompoms. We often pop out onto the balcony just to gaze at it.
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