I have admitted defeat. I'm a killer. My beautiful Dragon Tree that I was so proud of owning has officially died. I admit; it was because I didn't treat it perfectly. Apparantly I've overwatered it and underwatered it during it's life, I've let it starve and I failed at repotting it.

Whilst I knelt there, infront of my plant, I felt really sorry. I felt like I'd done something awful and that the plant was wilting in pain and, if possible, would cry it's tear of death. I was actually sad.

But then today I've been thinking more on the subject and I don't feel so bad. I remember all the years that my parents have taken my sister and I out to chose the Christmas tree. We go around loads of fields from loads of tree suppliers finding a Christmas tree that is perfect. It's got to look right from every angle, it needs to touch the ceiling, it must be bushy and there must be no gaps anywhere.

I imagine that the fields of Christmas trees are all stood there like little excited children. They're all proudly displaying themselves looking for a good home and when a happy family, rosey cheeked from the cold, comes to look and them and finally decides that they are a perfect tree for the family, the tree must be ecstatic with Christmas joy.

So I imagine that my Dragon tree, who obviously couldn't live forever, was happy to have lived in my bedroom. It was happy to have a proud owner and happy to see not only my flat in Hitchin but also my bedroom up in Shirley.

It might have been malnourished at times, but who of us hasn't? It was pleased to have been my plant and I'm pleased to have had it.