More than Writers

I have just carried a huge wilting white poinsettia into my utility room to put it into the sink for a long deep drink. As I retraced my steps, collecting an abundance of fallen leaves, I thought I was probably too late. The remaining withered leaves are unlikely to cling to their stem for much longer.     But the pseudo flowering plant, with its blossom of pale leaves, has out-classed itself as it filled a corner that in other years has boasted a large bouquet of winter blooms to last across the Christmas period and just about into the new year. The room will look bare a fortnight later than usual, longing for the first daffodils.     Trying to decide whether it’s time to throw out the plant has made me think about other aspects of my life where I have hung on to things in the hope that they will revive or come in useful. Once- favourite clothes, reminiscent of weddings or outings, hang forgotten and at risk of moths. Over the years, the mending pile has col...