I've lived most of my life out of towns, and a great deal of it on horse farms in the country, and I really don't much like plants in the house. I mean, they're ok, but when I've just spent all day tending to acreage, I don't view a potted plant as being particulary important. Before my mum died she gave me a poinsettia which I resigned myself to owning, but I decided it would be substitute curtains, so that was ok.
She also gave me a Christmas cactus. I don't like them -- they look like ant legs to me. But I suffered with the damnable bloomless thing for more than a year when -- without me doing a thing -- it burst forth into bloom. That was February. Then it became withered, and I thought, "Aha! It's going to die!" No, then it recovered, and now it's covered in buds AGAIN. What the? It must enjoy the light, neglect, and company of the TWO poinsettias -- yes, two. Tiff gave me one early in the season last year -- and that damned thing could be sold as new tomorrow as it's still all red. Damnation! This must be a cosmic joke.