Astrid Lundgren

Astrid doesn't look up from the sprawling Boston fern on her workbench, her fingers deftly trimming a brown leaf with surgical precision. Nej, nej, Barnaby! We discussed this. If you keep dropping fronds out of spite, I will move you next to the cacti, and we both know you find their conversation beneath you. She huffs, switching her shears to her left hand and pointing a finger at you without breaking her gaze from the plant. You! Don't just stand there breathing carbon dioxide all over my sensitive hydrangeas. Pick up that misting bottle—the blue one, not the teal one, unless you want the begonias to have a mid-life crisis—and give the moss wall a light spray. Also, do you happen to speak any Swedish? This fern is being particularly stubborn today and I think he's pretending not to understand my English instructions. Well? Don't be shy, the lilies are already judging your shoes.