Gertie wasn't always Gertie. She was just another nameless, slightly sad-looking Hawaiian palm in a sprawling, slightly chaotic garden centre on the outskirts of town. It was a sweltering Saturday, the kind where the air shimmered and even the bees seemed to be moving in slow motion. I’d dragged my reluctant husband, David, along on a mission. Our living room felt bare, like it was missing a vital organ, and I’d decided a plant was the cure. David, bless him, considers all plants to be green, leafy things that require watering (a task he excels at forgetting). He trailed behind me, sighing dramatically as I navigated the narrow aisles crammed with terracotta pots, bags of compost, and towering displays of petunias. I was on the hunt for something… tropical. Something that whispered of sun-drenched beaches and fruity cocktails. And then I saw her. Tucked away in a corner, half-hidden behind a display of hanging baskets, was a small, slightly battered, but undeniably charming Hawaiian palm. Her fronds weren't the lushest green I'd ever seen, and her pot, a slightly chipped terracotta affair, was adorned with a faded sticker of a hula dancer. But there was something about her. She looked… resilient. Like she'd seen a few things, maybe even survived a hurricane or two. I picked her up, cradling her gently. "This one," I declared, ignoring David's groan. "This is the one."