If ignorance were more socially acceptable perhaps we’d all be a lot more knowledgeable

I can’t always talk about foxgloves. In fact I didn’t really mean to start a blog. I wrote an article. An article that was important to me. That I needed to share. That I wanted the world to know about.

Or at least the parts of the world with Foxgloves in them.

And then I found I’d started a blog, sort of accidentally. It was a quick way to share information.

Before I knew it another article appeared. It was linked to the first. It was about the trauma. It fitted.

Now for me it’s only the first that needs saying. The extra bits, the continuations, they’re just the conversation behind the big neon sign of what happened.

I won’t always talk about foxgloves.

But I’m going to today. I’ve had so many responses from the tens of thousands of people who viewed my blog in the 4 days since I started typing.

They’ve slipped neatly into three categories
There are the, “Everyone knows this. Why say it?” People. There aren’t many of these. They know about poisonous plants. They can list many common or garden hazards. They are knowledgeable on the subject.

But they’re wrong.

Not in a horrible way. In a lovely way. They believe that because they know something, that everyone else does.

It makes me think that maybe we should sometimes check on our general knowledge base. Because there’re lots of things I don’t know (like how to set up an aesthetically pleasing blog – I suspect the answer is “don’t be lazy and do it all on your iPhone, turn on the damn computer”), but it’s not fun admitting that.

If ignorance were more socially acceptable perhaps we’d all be a lot more knowledgeable.

Sounds wise doesn’t it?

Back to my categories. The second group, larger than the first, maybe a third of people who messaged me, didn’t have a clue. They had no idea that foxgloves were poisonous.

The lack of knowledge frightened them. Not the foxgloves themselves, just the fact that they maybe had them in the garden, in close proximity to a small child, and had no inkling that there was any kind of hazard present.

The third, and largest group, knew that foxgloves were poisonous, but had no idea how dangerous they were. They thought that they would maybe cause some nausea.

And then of course there were those who don’t get a category of their own, who felt that I should have explained about all poisonous plants. Since foxgloves alone isn’t dealing with the issue. Of course they are absolutely right that foxgloves are not the only dangerous plant in the garden.

I assure this lot that the second I have first-hand experience of this, I shall blog about it. The way Esme’s going, she’d be happy to oblige, but I hope it’s ok that I do my utmost to stop her.

Because I’m not just talking about poisonous plants. I’m talking about my daughter. I’m talking about the days when I didn’t know if she would ever wake up again.

But use this opportunity to embrace your ignorance! There’s a great website called The Poison Garden.


Study it. It’s brilliant. And then don’t panic. Just file it away for if you ever need it.

Or visit them in Alnwick and hear their stories whilst they show you the plants. I think my children need to go.

I also think that Foxgloves have a very specific draw to children. They’re tactile. They’re fuzzy. The flowers are little hats, or fit perfectly on fingers. They grow at child-height. They’re abundant in the summer, when you’re out in the garden. They’re beautiful.

All in all they’re a bit of a perfect storm.

So why don’t poisonings happen more often?

Because most children, no matter how young, are clever enough to stop eating nasty things.

I keep hearing the, “why bother?” Question though.

Because it’s the question I struggled with for three months before posting.

And the answer always comes back to, if this is very rare, that doesn’t mean it will never happen again.

If it happened again, and the parent didn’t know, because we thought they knew, so we didn’t tell them, then that would be the wrong decision.

I try not to think about the hypotheticals of what not knowing may have meant to Esme.

That way bad thoughts lie.