My best friend bought me a fig tree for my birthday, but it never arrived. The garden centre were adamant it had been delivered, so I walked round my house, up and down the lane, just in case I had had blinkers on and missed a fig tree. Absolutely no fig tree.

Two months later, the garden centre send a photo of where they delivered the fig tree, proof of delivery per se. Not my house. “I don’t suppose you recognise this house, it could be anywhere in Ireland!” she said, because of course, a mis delivery could be hundreds of miles away!

I send the photo to my postie.

She replies within five minutes with the address.

It is next door to my cousin.

Even more ridiculously, my cousin was asked by his next door neighbours two months ago if he’d ordered a fig tree, because one had arrived, and it wasn’t theirs.

He knocked on their door and asked if they’d mind if he took the fig tree. They said not at all, in fact they hadn’t even watered or moved it since it was delivered to their front stairs two months ago.

The tree is here, healthy, somehow it flourished through its abandonment. I’m so proud of it, when I look out the window it brings me hope.

The fig tree stood, stoic and determined, just waiting for the next phase; it quietly grew leaves and bloomed even as it was ignored, it took on water when it rained. I want to learn to be so independent and patient, to make do and thrive. Be more fig tree.