If I am lost, I always like to wonder into the Greenhouse. The faceted glass panes reflect the light, obstructing me from derision. Carefully, I lift the leaves of the tomato plants to see if they are ripe. Not quite. Just like my own cheeks, they are only beginning to flush in colour, merely asking for permission to belong in this world. Why would they have such a petty ambition, anyway? It's a strange, dark place; much darker, at times, than the warm bed of soil they are still half-blanketed in. But sometimes, when you push and push and your round head surfaces from underneath the soil, after months of darkness, of failure, it feels as though life is worth living. I can't say I feel like a tomato in the slightest.