This is a travesty that I, Florence Maryweather (head of The Annex community association and social club, as well as director of its gardening club), am in the back of this wretched “paddy wagon” on my way to have a “friendly little chat” with Toronto’s chief of police. You may be wondering why I am in this smelly box on wheels, well you can point your finger squarely at that cheating Margaret Atwood! She may be a famous author –if you can even call those dreadful novels of hers “writing”— but that doesn’t change the fact that she is a dirty, no-good cheat! She couldn’t stand to lose to me again in the Annex Annual Gardening contest, so the great author resorted to this. But let’s start from the beginning; I have a case to make regarding my innocence.

I was walking home the other night, after an exhausting evening of volunteering (helping those less fortunate always takes more time and energy than I care for) when something caught my eye. Outside one of this neighbourhood’s beautiful homes was a spectacular garden. It was a visual feast of colours coupled with the intoxicatingly sweet scent of the countless flowers; this garden was sure to make an impression on the judges. The rose bushes were to die for, and the ivy that climbed the walls did so with such splendor I knew this was a garden worthy of my attention. I was lost in the awe of such a skilfully managed piece of land, when an epiphany struck me: this was my garden! Plant for plant, this yard was an exact replica of my own! The nerve of such an act, and with the judging of the gardens soon to take place, I could not stand for such an act. I had worked too hard on my yard to lose to some copycat!

I was outraged to say the least.

All it took was a visit to city hall to find out who lived in the offending house. It did not matter to me that some author (national treasure was throwing about as well) was trying to upstage me for as top gardener, all that mattered was setting things right.

This brings us to tonight and the events leading to my trip in this foul-smelling police car. As I was not going to be outdone by the likes of Margaret Atwood, I decided to let my pruning shears exact my revenge. With each snip, the metal blades brought order back to the world, and ensured my position as number one gardener for another year. My future was almost secure until the house lights suddenly clicked to life, chasing away the protection of the night.

She ran out of her house, yelling at me, telling me to stop. I snipped at a few rose bushes as I ran down the front walk, decapitating them with satisfying precision, and right into the police officer who is driving this offensively smelly car: a hulking brute of a man who claimed I had a weapon, and used that meagre justification to throw me into this, what I would assume to be, urine-soaked backseat. And while an event like this is sure to go on some record somewhere, when I win The Annex Annual Gardening Award for the third year in a row, I am sure this whole mishap will be quickly forgotten.