Spare a thought for the wide­spread abuse of flow­ers

The Sunday Mail (Queensland) - Stellar - - Contents - ror­ rory gib­son

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.

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