Rosa had 12 plants.

Her flatmate had pointed this out, with a specific kind of calm that suggested it had been said before, twelve plants, four windowsills, one south-facing wall, and nowhere near enough light.

Some plants were thriving. Most were fine. Three were in spots that were not right for them, and everyone in the flat knew it, including Rosa, who was fairly certain, the plants themselves.

The problem wasn't the plants. It was the architecture.

She needed shelves. Not the floating kind that looks elegant in pictures and vibrates gently every time someone uses the washing machine. Proper shelves, at different heights, that could handle a terracotta pot without flexing.

She ordered two shelves for the main living room wall, both with triangle brackets, both in a raw oiled finish because she liked the contrast with the greenery.

She spent an entire Saturday arranging and rearranging.

The trailing plants at the top, to let them hang. The compact ones in the middle, at eye level, where she could check on them properly. The ones that needed less light were on the lowest shelf, slightly back from the window.

Her flatmate walked in on Sunday morning and said nothing for a moment.

Then: "It looks like a proper plant shop."

Rosa took this as a compliment.

She now has 15 plants. The shelves can handle it.