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rudely forced by "Mama" who shoved the fern inside the new dark-complexioned and sad piece of pottery (Poitevin called it "crockery" in private and tittered) as a symbolic act of consummation. Dissatisfaction reigned. Ever since the fancy flower pot incident, the fern never seemed to have the same respect for Poitevin. Why couldn't Poitevin have stood up to "Mama" just once? There was clenching of teeth and beating of breasts. "You'll be the death of me!" exclaimed Poitevin at once viciously and timidly. It was unclear whether Poitevin was addressing his mother or the flowerpot. Poitevin ran to the corner of the room and started whispering things furiously at a cobweb. It was difficult to distinguish Poitevin's groans from Poitevin's words and agitated sniggering, "hragh…pots, stupid… 
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hrumpfda…cockamamie…hehe… 'cocka-Mama' …right…rawr." "Mama" knew what was best. Poitevin sat in the corner for hours thinking and rethinking of solutions and resolutions to solve or resolve the situation. A proud fern is no friend of a frivo- lously melancholy flowerpot, and, indeed, all of Poitevin's friends had flattered the flowerpot and had ceased taking notice of the abundant, green foliage coming out of it, which was all the fern's hard work. The fern had become like an excep- tional wig that might have strolled around the parks of Versailles in the early 18th century on the head of a pink-cheeked, blue-eyed marquise, and the flowerpot was the fair head, so beautiful, so fragrant. To be sure, that flowerpot had accessorised and sidelined the fern. But even that success did not cheer that morbid piece of  |
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