PLANTS

Daniel Tuffin
Day 1 How do you sleep at night? I sleep on my front so I dont have to experience the wet terracotta stench of my own breath. I have been working at a garden centre for 3 months. The boss, I say boss, I mean, bloke wearing a bum bag, has a case of fat man syndrome so jogs off regularly to get himself a snack. I say jogs, I mean walks. This is when I am at my worst. I only eat the best of the best when hes out. I had a bird of paradise for lunch yesterday washed down with some incredible tulips, minus pips, otherwise flowers grow in my chest and I would end up eating my own self and thus depriving my own self the luxury of consumption. I love eating soil. I like the gravy grout like texture of mud and manure in my throat. Do not believe me if I tell you I think this is normal, as I would be lying. I know this to be an outlandish feat. Although I have never eaten a cactus because I know that it would fuck me up, I have thought about it. Punishment for the desiccation of its entire kin; Trial by fury if you will. Sometimes I like to imagine that my throat is the one in the dock, the spikes are the members of the jury and the cactus is the prosecutor. Only sometimes though, the rest of the time is spent thinking about eating the cactus. I believe if you ate a bicycle wheel it may feel similar although I have never tried this so I cannot tell you this to be true, it is merely a belief. The more feminine flowers are somewhat a delicacy. I like buttercups, although they dont taste much like butter, they are incredibly fruity. More so than youd imagine. I like it more than youd imagine. Just quickly, to cement the disbelief youre already having about me, I fed my sister our family canary. All of him. We were 12 and 7 respectively. He was dead when I found him. I put a lollystick up his arse and dipped him in caramel. I havent always had the same fixation. I used to work at Prontaprint. I had a penchant for licking peoples faces on photo paper until the paper turned white and everyone looked the same. Faces in the faeces, I would often joke to myself, when getting rid of the daily dosage. I hate to say it, but the thing I enjoyed most was eating cats. Pictures of kittens. I ate a packet of kittens once that were supposed to be used on flyers for Battersea Dogs And Cats Home. Who knew? Cats at a dogs home. Nothing lost. Im sure they all found homes. Before I continue, I just must add that the packet of kittens were print based. At home, I have bedded myself for the summer in a compost heap in my airing cupboard with the glare of the bathroom light masquerading as the sun. I know I wont be growing, as I am fully aware I am not a plant, but I do believe in understanding what you eat. I believe this is why we visit farms as children. For me, seeing a pig in its element is the first part of craving its organs. I will be planting myself every night. I may, I have yet to decide, put my feet in stagnant water to see what a lily feels like when given for congratulations. I will be the reconstructing second wave of congratulations however, you know the part where the congratulations are over and no one wants to move the old dead plant. Just to see how it feels. I want dungarees. Enough.

Day 2 Have you ever worn a hair clip? I tried this yesterday whilst I watered my forehead but it was not an enjoyable experience. The sharpness of the grip has given me dandruff. I did however catch a moth in my armpit amongst the commotion of discovering the dandruff. He is still there now but is no doubt lacking breath. I may put it on eBay. I wore a bowtie to work today. I hoped it would distract the other staff enough so that I could try, for the first time, to sugar a banzai tree like cornflakes and eat it. I also had a few poppy seeds this morning, they are not flowers and I know this now. I had been duped. The other staff is Martha. She is blind and Im glad because it means I go unnoticed. I bet she still has net curtains because she cant find the window. I have been collecting bark to make a collage of me eating rolls of grass like sushi. The bark will represent my face. Although slightly rougher, the shape of it can often look bodily. If you have any bark in your garden please send it to me. My address is here somewhere but I will have to find it. I dont need it, ever. I know where I live. 1 second. Ive put some beans in the oven. In an oven glove. For extra protection as ovens are awful awful places. I wont eat them but have to show willing to the other tins or theyll start talking about me. Before I go Ill quickly tell you a story about my Mother. She was in Brookside. She had curly hair, she was a scouser, it was the 90s. She shaved her beard off to get the part. It was small but sufficient enough to leave her out of work. You will never work out who she was. To my knowledge she never ate anything that wasnt labelled food. It is a travesty in my eyes, both of them, as then we would have had something in common. Unlike my father, who I may discuss in length another time, who had nothing in common with me. He used to paper cut himself. While writing this Ive pinstriped my entire body with a sharpie. Too weird? Fuck off youre still reading it. Enough. Day 3 I have stopped brushing my teeth because I am using part of my gullet to grow cress. Actually, thats all Im giving you. Enough. Day 4 If you put Greek yoghurt on a stinging nettle it is edible. This is a new fact for the world to absorb. I am not keen on the nettle. Like the cactus he is fairly violent, but I needed to make sure that he was not part of my plans. I realise I have decided nettles are men. This is intentional. The first part of the nettle reminded me of eating screws from an old roses chocolates tin. I did this once and once only. It was not the sharpness that I found off-putting, but the rust. I cannot deal with

rust. I am not a shed after all. Also no one wants to sit GCSES with orange dribble on their uniform. The second part of the nettle was healthier. Mostly because I put it in Marthas lunchbox. I am unsure as to what she had, but it did blend in nicely I must say. She must have quite enjoyed it because she said nothing. For the rest of the day. Her lips looked vile. Neither I or Martha or I like the boss. I put my uneaten lunch in his bum bag today. As it was an orchid, he will probably think he put it there, but really I licked that orchid. I licked its juicy bodice clean of all its nourishment, and dunked it in and out of my gape like a crude woman. And how I wanted to eat the leaves but NO. I fed it into his little pouch so he would touch it and feel my loose taste buds. He did. I saw him take it out of the pouch and fling my spit onto the floor. What I had not bargained for was selection of money in the pouch that would get wet from my orchid saliva. I watched those notes dry on the radiator. I am home now and rubbing a guava into my crevices. I read somewhere, actually I read it off the back of my hand, I wrote it there, that if you feed the guava into your jointed areas your body starts to believe it is meant to live outside. I will report the findings. On my wall there is some blue looking damp. I dont like blue, but I do like damp. So the situation isnt ideal but at least 50% of it is favourable to me. Damp is good for growth. I know this because I think it and because I converse little with the outside world, I have no one to question this with. My hair is starting to resemble moss. I am keen on this. How are you feeling? I feel we are getting on well. You can be the neck and I shall be the scarf. Enough. Day 5 Currently I am crucifying myself in the bathroom. This is because the potted plants decided that I was blaspheming toward the greenery of our pleasant land and claiming all soils as my own. So as they wish, I am attached to a large trellis usually constructed for the growth of ivy. I am donning a chicken wire crown of rose thorns, an obvious choice. The red petals are providing the flooring for this event, and are giving off the effect that I am in fact bleeding. How deceitful and ironic, that one plant can trick another. If I wanted to I could easily eat the crown and climb down and put some thistles in the microwave. But I think I will stay a bit longer to repent for my so-called sins. Whilst Im here maybe I should elaborate more about the current landlord situation. He came over yesterday evening, with his wife, Merlin. I do not know her real name but she looks like Merlin would suit her. He said I needed to be careful because someone had complained that I keep flooding the downstairs flat. I told him I live on the ground floor and then pretended to pass out. I heard him poke me in the chest but I am incredible at playing dead. Eventually he left, although I think he may have taken some of my biscuits. He didnt take any of my biscuits but imagine if he had. Then I would be able to blackmail him. Maybe Ill throw the biscuits away and then blame it on him to myself. Earlier today before my crucifixion, I pressed some flowers. To my skin. With an iron. Dandelion and Burndick. A joke. I dont tell many so highlight it and remember to flag it in your exam. Moving on, I dont think the cress is growing. I have to swallow on a basis that keeps my breathing frequent and this seems to be stumping the cress increase. I may have to sew a small pocket in my mouth, much in the same way a spider monkey has. I may not have the stomach for this so I will get a doctor to do this. He will probably be played by me,

using a different alias. Maybe to keep things easy to remember I shall call him Alias. Toying with Bi-Polar is hard. Toying with Bi- Polar is easy. Martha was ill today. Lonely, I made the mistake of chewing a duplicate book made from shiny paper for old times sake whilst at work. My tongue is blue and damp. I do not like blue but I do like damp. You already know this. I felt bad, so I played he loves me, he loves me not with a bunch of chrysanthemums. I loved them all. I may need to move my left arm. Hold on. I am now free from the trellis. I have put socks over the tops of the potted plants so they resemble druids. I have done this so they believe it is night and that I have passed on. I realise this is insinuating the idea I will be resurrected tomorrow so to combat this I will eat all the current plantation, and then get new ones in. In my cupboard where Ive been living, I think I have grown an onion. I thought they were flower bulbs but in haste I may have stolen from the wrong pot. I have not looked as it is rooted deeply but my left leg smells like onion and this is where the root is. I think that is referred to as putting two and two together. If Martha is off tomorrow that means she has died or is still sick. I hope it is the latter rather than former because sometimes her blindness can be enticing. I wore his coat in the bath this morning. Roland was a terrible name. Enough. Day 6 I found a photo this morning of me. I look French. I am not French. Whilst at work I sharply learnt to write in Braille. It has been an interest and I decided now was the right time to forward my knowledge of the blinds methods. I wrote, in perfect regimentation line form Martha. Look in your basement. I used poppy seeds and a glue stick and I stuck it to the bottle of washing up liquid in the kitchen. Only Martha washes up. Sugar coating this will not make it easier to describe, so I wont. Today I sucked off the root end of an eastern purple coneflower. You will not know what this is. I couldnt eat the top end because bees were near it, it is summer, I dont enjoy sharing. I planted the root in my mouth and sucked and sucked until it gave itself to me. It lasted an age. I had to tell the boss that I had diarrhoea. There was awkwardness. Currently I am eating a hanging basket. Only its no longer hanging, it is on a plate, on my lap in my living space. It is currently missing from No. 91. She, and of this I am defiant, will not be missing it. Whist I eat this petunia, I can see a roofer. He is roofing. Below this roofer is a camper van. It has flowers painted on it. Not the sort that create hunger, the sort that look crap. I have to go now because I need to find a toothpick or something sharp because I have got far too much fertilizer up my nose. This has not worked well today, I am having respiratory problems. A lot. I wonder if she has looked yet. If she has I bet she is having respiratory problems too.

Enough.

Day 7 Alas. A strand of Cress. Near the molar. If I chose I probably could grow an extra foot inside my mouth. I am THAT in control of the gob. I will be no doubt lambasted for this, but until this evening I had never had the pleasure of attending a well. Gravity swallowed my echo in seconds, but I felt somewhat at home in and around the area. I feel it will be a resting ground that the weeds I discarded will be understood. Destroying said weeds had raised a tear to my duct, however they were a hindrance. They were distracting to the other leafage and were intimidating to new seeds. And their constant bickering was like grinding teeth. Thoughtless to the ear canal. Earlier this evening I took the liberty of dissecting a yucca plant. I had convinced myself during a conversation, that inside, lurking would be a fish finger. He is not, even in the most liberal of towns, part of our species. He is breaded and functions using fire, we are living and enjoy photosynthesis and quenching our thirst. Tragically, I found no fish fingers inside. Only Aloe Vera. It oozed from the strands and I felt awful. But it tasted excellent. I am a firm believer of waste not want not. Martha was not in work. I know why, I dont think I will elaborate on this just yet. There are certain things I have done since we met that I should keep from you until I feel more comfortable. However, I must say, having someone to relay information to is helping to dilute my imagination. I like to imagine that I am a spit. On the grass of a football pitch. This is both regular and normal to me. Would you like to know something about my Father? He is size 9 in shoes and his hand is in the dogs stomach. In the dogs grave. In the garden of the house my mother sold. Someone has my Fathers hand. There is something you now know about my father. Enough. Day 8 She looked in her basement. Enough. Day 9 In preparation I have begun the grazing. I have been eating tray upon tray of seasonal flower since 9am. I am off sick from work. However I am not sick. This is the second time in my entire life I have been sick from work. Tomorrow will be my third. The first time I made my father drive me to the front of the shop, which shall remain nameless, and cast me onto the pavement outside the building like the vengeful warriors do in films. I lay there for eleven hours unnoticed gasping for air by the bins. At the 12th hour I walked home. In shorts. As I say, this is my second time. I called the boss this morning and couldnt muster words so I coughed my name in Morse code. I dont

believe he knows Morse code. I feel Im starting already to look plumper. I better explain myself a little better. Maybe this would be the perfect time for me to elaborate on the situation I have been roller coasting past for some time now. On Wednesday or Day 6 to you, I took my lunch break at Marthas house. Her keys were in the inside pocket of her coat next to her phone, she never has any text messages. It took me some time to find the correct key and I did think to myself if I were blind I would have one key only to make things easier. I let myself parade around her untouched abode touching things. I spent an equal amount of time in each room waiting until I felt I knew where she would feel my gift most. I bore down the staircase into what looked like a terribly dank area. Her basement. I sat in darkness for long enough to feel like I was adapting my eyes into hers. I had often wished I could see what she sees. This must be close to it. She has never known colour, yet If she knows no colour, does she even see black? I had found the place. Barrow by barrow, box by box I unloaded the van. Step by step to the basement I could feel my excitement. I laid it out on the stone floor and turned on the light. It looked vast. It felt like the only token I could give her. I arranged the basement for probably longer than a lunch break and turned off the light. I went home and listened to music for the first time in years. Maybe this is what job satisfaction feels like. A day had passed, as you are aware before Martha came back to work. She began to unravel a story to me, which of course, I knew the ending of. I had woven the story before she had even lisped the words. A forced entry had occurred in her home. Someone, that someone being me to you and me, had created an oasis, a lagoon of the most exclusive flowers and plants, a jungle of lavish organisms in her very basement. Vines also lassoed from the walls but she failed to mention this. She had spent the day with a friend who had described the surroundings to her in obvious great depth. She claimed to have tidied it up but I dont believe this to be true. It was too beautiful to tidy, it would have repented. I know she knows it was me but is withholding this from me. She ended the story and I just nodded. She cant listen to nodding. I had never done this before but I have invited her to my house. I said I would cook for her. I wont be cooking. Shes coming on day 11. Or Monday to her. I believe she will show. I hope she will show. I have the most unmatchable gift this time. The main attraction, something grand. I will continue to commit gluttony into the small hours, so tomorrows entry will be something from my past that I will share with you, with no direct correlation to the events I have been relaying throughout the passage. I can feel it in my fingertips. It is working. Enough. Day 10

When I was younger I played sport. I called Tristian shit at running and for this I am truly sorry. You werent shit at running you were trying your best. If you could see me now. Enough. Day 11 I am inside a vase. 12 by 6. Naked. I am smooth and oiled. I am shaved. For the past 48 hours I have been eating from a platter of floral delicacies and an enormous bag of compost. And Miracle-Gro. Pot upon pot of miracle-Gro. I have eaten my own body weight at least thrice over and my skin has turned an almost blue shade of brown. Under the skin my body looks tattooed. Vines, leaves, pips, petals, storks and stems press against the surface like veins in the heat are known to. I look air tight. The flowers are oozing from my pours, sprouting like hair from everywhere hair grew. Water beads are steaming the glass. I hope they arent my own; I want to be as one. I cannot move my body other than to use my arms, which oddly are still working. I feel as though my brain still realises their very purpose. The time is 5.44 and 56 seconds and I am expecting Martha in 3, 2, 1 15 minutes. I have always been fond of left-handed scissors. They are fun to watch cack handed people fail with. As I run the blades along the length of my arm, the skin cracks like ice. Peeling it back is wondrous. The first unveiling of the soil and flower growth in the shape of my arm. I am gliding the cut along the seams of my mass of body. Blood is filling the soil. This will act as nutrients, I am sure. It is painless, so worry not. I am skinless from the neck down. My body shape, still in perfect tact, looks untouchable. I am formed. Curtained around my heart sunflowers. I hope she likes them. My insides have been masked by a sea of wild plants. And dirt. So much dirt. I have minutes remaining so Im going to peel off my face and let my brain roll out of the neck of the vase. I hope she likes it. I am a garden, in full human form. The bathroom light is still on. The door is a-jar. Enough.