Nature abhors a vacumn, and any frond of nature's is a 
        friend of kine, so it fallows that I should be especially 
        interested in recycling HOLES. 
Recycling STUFF is a piece of cake - you just lay it out smack-
dab in front of the bathroom mirror and before you know it you'll 
have found a place for it to serve some useful purpose and be 
removed from your life. Narcissity is the mother of all 
interventions. 
You won't be surprised, therefore to learn that I sprang to my 
latest feat with a grin on my face. I'd been lost up at the 
northern end of the living room, fighting off the encircling 
spider plants with Pepperomia spray. 
Exhausted, I lay on my back in a quiet spot, listening to a 
symphony that could have been written by Sibelius, had it not 
been totally unlike anything Sibelius ever wrote. 
There below me (I was supine, you will recall) on the ceiling 
were HOLES! Gaps in the very fabric that stops the people in the 
penthouse above me from dropping in for supper. 
In what would be the clothes closet had I any suits left that fit 
me (see "supine" above) is a jar of hooks'n'eyes. And chains. 
(The bedroom clothes closet. Why do you ask?) 
It was the work of an instant to plug each ceiling hole with a 
plastic plug and a screw-hook and a length of chain. Grabbing as 
many small pots and plastic-bags-of-soil-with-cuttings-within as 
I could, I set the complete assemblage of house plants the task 
of growing upwards to meet the descendants, and of growing 
downwards to meet the parents. 
        My neck is stiff from walking around the place seeing how 
        many holes there are in each room (used to hold curtain 
        tracks or light fittings) and planning to move plants to 
        eye-level, freeing up the tables, desks and bookshelves 
        for, well, more plants, I suppose. 
christopher.greaves@ablelink.org     www.interlog.com/~cgreaves
 * 1st 2.00b #6263 * Don't Brake!
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