Walking through the garden she notices that the fence around the flowerbed was carefully built. But the mint won’t grow. She can see why. There’s not enough sun, probably not enough water either. She knows from experience that mint thrives under a dripping tap, in blazing sun, even reflected off a white wall. It was like that in Parkhurst, the house she lived in when she was first married. She had grand ideas of a herb garden, an assortment of herbs, a variety of her favourites that she imagined she might snip at sundown prior to preparing the evening meal. It was a stupid fantasy. Did it come with a straw hat and a flat basket, she wonders. No, her herb garden was unsuccessful. Most of the seedlings died, or if they survived, soon got leggy and brown. Eventually they went to seed. She’d not known enough then to look after plants. But the mint grew obscenely, in an arrogantly bright green orb, outside the bathroom window, under a dripping tap. It grew thicker and lusher, greener by the day, shaming its spindly flowerbed fellows further down the lawn. There was something yobbish about that mint. It was so loud. She’d thought mint might be difficult, it being a ‘soft’ herb, but it bushed and bristled at the abluting end of the garden — alongside the toilet outlet pipe, truth be told — with a proudly pungent posture. it was like a gang of youths, that mint bed, she mused. So verdant, so coarse, so plump with stink and so oblivious.