There is a specific kind of madness that descends upon a gardener when they see the words “Special Offer.” It’s a primal, twitchy-eyed greed that overrides common sense. So, when an internet advert promised two packs of bedding geraniums for a pound each, I didn’t stop to ask questions. I didn’t wonder about the logistics. I simply clicked “Buy” with the frantic energy of a madman.

When the box arrived, however, it looked less like a horticultural delivery and more like the aftermath of a high-speed collision involving a salad bar. Due to the bargain-basement price, the packaging was, to say the least, somewhat optimistic. Most of the tiny plug plants had liberated themselves from their plastic cells and were huddled in a chaotic, muddy heap at the bottom of the box. It was a horticultural massacre.

In a moment of misplaced “Monty Don” tenderness, I decided they looked thirsty. I placed the survivors in a shallow tray of water to “rehydrate” and left them to soak. This was a catastrophic error. Pelargoniums, you see, are essentially the camels of the floral world. They thrive on neglect and bone-dry soil. Giving them a foot bath is like offering a drowning man a glass of water; they absolutely loathe it. In a classic display of my own incompetence, I forgot about them for three or four days. By the time I returned, they were looking distinctly soggy and deeply offended.

Yet, nature is surprisingly resilient to human stupidity. Armed with a dibber and the patience of a saint, I began the grim task of sorting the casualties. One by one, I tucked the damp, bedraggled survivors into fresh compost in celled trays. It took ages, felt like surgery, and I’m fairly sure that, being hunched over for so long, I still have not straightened up yet. But the final tally? Seventy-nine plants. For two quid plus postage, I’ve basically committed highway robbery. Take that, garden centres.