Off The Cuff: Jeepers, creepers - educating Riaz on things that he knows best

They're dying," I said, dull and matter-of-fact, accepting the inevitable. "I can't bear to watch it happen. We need new plants."

I needed to switch loyalties. It was time to tog up in gardening gear - a tee, cotton culottes and a wide-brimmed straw hat. I looked like a clown, and felt even funnier, but my husband and I bravely made for the huge, sprawling open-air nursery complex I knew and loved.

Might as well give the salesmen at the nurseries something to chuckle about as I set about the difficult task of eliminating the lovelies that wouldn't come home.

They were all very tempting, from the huge, leafy ones right down to the tiny potted ones with tissue paper blooms of white and soft pink that felt as delicate as they appeared. For the first few minutes, I went a little crazy, tripping through the narrow aisles lured by colour and size and texture and shape, breathing in the fine, moist plant air. I was in green heaven.

It had been way too long since the last visit. Gradually, under the summer sun and still under my straw hat, I began to wilt. Our quest for white bougainvillea, a creeper and rubber plants was at first futile, and we were forced to move on. As the initial euphoria wore off and the heat began to take its toll, we were ready to buy just about anything.

Recklessly, we settled for a sad, rather lonely rubber plant, begging to be adopted and a forlorn dieffenbachia sequine from the penultimate shop in the row of vast nurseries. Still missing the white bougainvillea and the creeper, we trooped to the last stop on the itinenary, weary and hopeless.

Riaz was tending to his brood, when we made our entrance. Listlessly, we asked him for the remaining items and he replied in the affirmative. My husband and I visibly perked up as he guided as to the white flowered, thorny specimens. He made us an offer we couldn't refuse (and he knew it; he mentioned something silly about female psychology, which I ignored and which, for some strange reason, amused the husband).

We were now putty in his hands. Riaz led us deeper inside the nursery and introduced us to his European variety of money plants, all the way from the Netherlands.

Sturdy, exuberant and dark green, they sheltered in cool air-conditioning, along with several proud and healthy dieffenbachia and lively rubber plants. I noted disappointedly that they were much better looking than the ones we had just bought.

He waxed eloquent on the merits of the Dutch creepers as compared to the local variety. We just had to have them. Riaz spoke well and evidently loved his job. He lectured us on plant nutrients, the importance of potassium, nitrogen and phosphates and the right amount of water and sunlight for different plants.

Fertilizers from most of the shops were not as good as the special mix he prepared, because they had certain harmful chemicals.

Quick as a beat, the husband declared we must have the magic mix. Riaz obviously knew enough about male psychology too.

While loading our cargo onto the back of the car, Riaz noticed our earlier haul and held his head in agony and howled, "You bought these from my foe? That guy over there - he's my foe. How much did he sell you these for?" We replied almost inaudibly, shame-faced and guilty. Another howl. The dieffenbachia and rubber plant were by now positively cowering under his glare.

"Look at them, they're sick, they're practically dying. Oh no, no, no. I can't let you go back with these." Riaz dragged the offending dieffenbachia out, replaced it with a bigger, better, more robust one of his own, replanted it in a lovely pot with his magic mix and presented it to us as a gift.

We were stunned at the gesture and didn't know quite how to respond. His parting words were unforgettable, "When you give someone a gift, always make sure it's the best."