Image by Eptalon via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Between the pale green, silver-spined fronds, round stems probe the air with tiny explorers at their tips. It’s pointless. The plant sits on top of a filing cabinet in an executive office on the fifth floor of a concrete box, yet it dangles its babies over the carpet in a futile effort to colonise.

“So, you’ll add those new elements to the proposal?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” I’m not really listening to anything the boss is saying, my mind is preoccupied. I admire the plant’s tenacity. Aren’t we all a little like that?

While the boss turns to his desk, I sidestep towards the plant. The tiny leaves of a baby pioneer tickle my arm. I twist a hand up behind my back and trace the cord to the mother plant.

“The new figures,” he says, holding out a sheet of paper.

I hesitate and he frowns. No good. I abandon operation liberate in favour of the offered paper and await another opportunity.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine.”

Another frown and a slow shake of the head.

Then, in the brief seconds it takes for him to return to his desk chair, I make my move. A pinch of my fingernails snips the explorer free.

“You can go now.”

“Uh huh.”

I keep my passenger out of site. This is one office spider plant that will colonise new ground.

Thanks for reading. I have always harboured a secret urge to steal baby spider plants. What about you?