How heartless is the human spirit each January. Christmas trees, shedding needles like tears, are left out in the cold for disposal. Less visible, but no less callous, is the discarding of poinsettias. Redder than Santa’s outfit, they radiate great cheeriness over Christmas before dreary January douses their flames. Into the bin the poor things go, not even honoured with a public chipping as a send-off. How callous we are.
But not me: I have stuck with the poinsettia I bought not last Christmas, nor the one before that, but the one before that; Christmas 2021. Throughout 2022, I cared for it with great diligence – feeding, watering, chatting, fondling and so on. I vaguely assumed it would reward my loyalty with a blazing return to glory come Christmas. But nothing. At this point, a lesser man would surely have dumped it, but not me. This underperforming poinsettia and I were in it for the long term.
As 2023 went by, the prospect of a second not-red Christmas loomed. I did what I should have done a year earlier – a bit of research. It turns out that all you have to do to get a poinsettia flaming anew, like the ones for sale in the supermarket, is subject it to complete darkness for 14 hours a day. This I did. I put it to bed in the darkest of cupboards in late afternoon and roused it at first light. If I went travelling, my poinsettia came with me. For 40 days and nights, all over the country, I stuck to my task.
Christmas came and went. Redness came there none. Nothing. Then I accidentally-on-purpose left it behind, in a cupboard somewhere in south Wales. I felt guilty – absurdly, as I owed it nothing. But what a dismal way to die.
After a good 10 days, I returned to retrieve its mortal remains. It was alive! And one leaf, one tiny leaf, was slightly turning red. There is hope! We go again. This year will be different. Truly, a poinsettia is for life, not just for Christmas.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
