Nuanced Understandings

Plants have an existential predicament, says Irma.

She sits down, next to Arthur.

What might that be? asks Sartre.

Arthur stands up.

They're rooted, says Irma.

She reaches out to stop Arthur leaving. Then thinks better of it.

I see, says Sartre. And what does that mean for the plant, besides the obvious?

So, plants develop a nuanced understanding of their immediate environment, says Irma.

Arthur notices something. She still has the tattoo. His name is still spelled incorrectly.

(It would be. It's a tattoo).

How do we know this? asks Sartre. It is difficult enough trying to see a tree without treeness, let alone getting into its head, or equivalent.

Experiments, says Irma.

Excellent method, says Gaius. Experiments, and the keeping of notes.

He pats his trousers.

Only because he is checking to see if he still has the Virgin's blue pencil. He does.

Plants experience the world differently from us, says Irma,

Is a beetroot a plant? asks the Scarabée.

Part of, says Belle. The delicious part. Did you know they were healthy?

This is not the best answer for the Scarabée.

They can distinguish between different colours of light, says Irma. They are aware of aromas. They know which way is up or down.

Man, says Sweezus. That's awesome. I don't always...

They know when they're being touched, says Irma.

Arthur has moved to the bathroom.

They remember being touched, says Irma.

Arthur goes in.

But they don't remember you, says Irma.

Ah, says Belle. That's lovely. And sad.

It's fascinating, says Sartre. I shall look into it further. As soon as I'm done with topology.

Are you into topology? asks Irma. Me too. Do you know we're the same as a donut?

Actually, I do, says Sartre.

Gaius has pulled out his pencil. The light bulb sharpener drops on the floor.

That's nifty, says Irma, reaching down to pick it up for him.

Yes, says Gaius. It means one always has a pencil sharpener, should one need it. Thank you Irma. I see you still have your tattoo.

This old thing, says Irma, pulling her sleeve down.

ARTHER, says Gaius. Funny way of spelling it. Is it someone you know?

Sort of, says Irma. Emma's got the same one.

I remember now, says Gaius. You and she won Richard Dawkins' sleep competition. Two years ago, was it?

Yeah, says Sweezus. You guys pretended you were eleven.

Eleven! says Sartre. How old were you really?

Thirteen, says Irma.

Crikey. And she's all by herself in Saint Malo. You do the maths.