“Lucky heather?”
The voice cuts through the general white noise of mumbled conversations, shop music spillage, and distant street-busking and traffic, slowing my determined lunchtime strolling through the precinct. I glance at the area in which the voice originated; it’s a woman, older than me, shorter than me, and holding more plantlife than me in an outstretched hand. And she’s started to smile, I’m guessing because I’ve paid her some attention.
Fact: the luckiest heather is the heather that doesn’t get pulled up from the ground and sold in little bunches by street oiks.
I lean towards her and then peer down at the sprig of flora gripped tightly in her small hand. The non-green bits are a pale mauve sort of colour but my knowledge of anything to do with nature is so poor that I can’t be certain that this isn’t dandelions with a lick of paint. Or even just dandelions. Maybe you can get mauve dandelions. I’m trying to clarify just how little I know about the subject.
“What is it,” I say slowly, “about this heather that gives it a probabilistic advantage over other heather?”
“Lucky heather!” she says with a wink. “Two quid.”
“Uh huh,” I continue. “I’m just wondering if you have any peer-reviewed analyses of double-blind trials conducted on the luckiness of this type of heather.”
“What?”
“Have the findings of any research performed on heather variants to determine whether some have a correlation with statistically relevant improved luck appeared in a peer-reviewed publication?”
The happy look has most definitely been replaced by one filled with irritation and confusion and it seems to suit her round face better. I begin to feel sorry for her and consider parting with two whole English pounds, justifying the transaction in my head as being one that might permit me to run a few scientific experiments on the mauve flowers later when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Fortuitous dock leaf?” asks the scruffy, scrawny, bearded man behind me. He waves a rather sad-looking bit of greenery at me. I take a quick, deep breath in preparation to ask him a pertinent question but the newcomer lifts up a glossy magazine. “19% more fortuitous than other leaves in clinical trials in Canada according to Leaf Science Quarterly,” he adds. I’ve heard of Leaf Science Quarterly and know it’s got a good reputation in the field of scientific leaf analysis.
Moments later I’ve exchanged two pounds for a dock leaf almost overflowing with fortune but that still leaves the forlorn-looking woman and her clump of wildlife. I reach into my pocket but realise I’m out of change and don’t really want to break into any of the tenners in my wallet.
“Not your lucky day,” I tell her.
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