Spare a thought for the widespread abuse of flowers
Most people view floristry as a benign profession, as I did once. You’ll note the tense. I’m not sure what triggered the transition from fan to fear – possibly a beer-induced musing – but I was in a flower shop and it struck me that the blooms could be screaming. I mean, you would be howling too if your legs were severed and you were shoved in a bucket.
The thought took hold. The florist shop was a charnel house in which decapitated gerberas had their heads impaled on wire stakes, and mutilated lilies cried out in agony in a frequency discernible only to other plants, and dogs. It was also an orphanage of sorts. Potted plants that hadn’t been amputated were desperate to find a good home and be spared from the pruning shears. They, in my imagining, were yelling, “Pick me, pick me!” to any customer who walked in. With their bright little faces turned upwards in yearning, they looked like puppies in a Cruella de Vil-owned pet emporium, their sad eyes begging for release.
I used to say it with flowers, grateful like most men for the get-out-of-jail card they represented. But in the face of all that heavy petal, I can’t fork out a hundred bucks for something that represents such misery. Hell, it’s a burden being so in touch with my feelings.