I was thinking about flowers today. I do most days. Flowers are around, I notice them, thus thoughts arise.

It’s a boring, tedious process.

Anyway, the theme of romance came up at work today in one of those interdepartmental conversations, when one employee crosses into a host domain.

I asked someone – a male aged 18-26, with the heart of lion and the flying powers of a hawk – if he’d ever bought anyone flowers.

He hadn’t. Nor would he admit to have ever done anything romantic for a girl.

This is irrelevant though, it just spilled out my fingers. And sort of leads up to the point of what I’m writing about.

I was then asked for my romantic exploits. I have little to none. Tedious nugatory bombast is an apt description perhaps of any such attempt, or want of an attempt.

An inane story of lollipops was told though – the sugary gift for the lactose intolerant – but nothing to swell a heart or impress a room made up of women for whom Spangles and space hoppers were a reality, not some mythic Peter Kay comic device.

And that was that, as the invading force trekked by to the homeland of a comfy office chair and a warm Mac.

In my head though, as often happens, I continued the conversation, and turned it into a rant of my mind’s creation (and sole audience) of the pointlessness of flowers.

Not in general of course – they’re beautiful, they smell nice, they feed bees or something, I don’t really know – but to actually purchase as a gift.

For flowers are meant to say ‘I care’. Or a variation of such – ‘I love you’, ‘get better’, ‘I miss you’, ‘I’ve jizzed on your best friend, but I should probably feel bad about it’. And so on.

But they only do as such (and remember this is opinion of conjecture, self-loathing and tiredness) because of the cultural cliche involved.

Thus, the thought process: someone in a film or TV show has bought flowers for someone and it has made both parties happy, thus it must work in real life.

What this does though is turn a pleasant notion of purchasing a gift for a loved one something utterly redundant of emotion or personality. To buy a rose for your fiancee is to condemn your relationship into a (nice smelling) mire of smiling celebrities and a brief accentuation of the aesthetic. Until the very things die.

A man does not buy petals and stems – he buys a hollow present and a damned future.

Unless of course he (I say he, but women can offer flowers as gifts too I’m sure I’ve read somewhere) picks the flowers himself from non-private ground, contemplating each flower for its own beauty and the real joy it might actually bring to someone. Then that’s okay. At least there’s effort.

There was meant to be a closing point of some sort here too, but it’s gone. Just the idea of ever buying flowers flaunts a thoughtlessness that shouldn’t exist between two people in love.


To come

I’ll try do this properly. I mainly wanted to say there was a nice moment in ASDA today when the self service checkouts were in unison and two machines harmonised a wonderful chorus of ‘unexpected item found in bagging area’. It made me chuckle. Was it worth creating a blog for, and then being influenced to create a new Twitter account, and thus a new Googlemail account, just because when you google my name it’s the first thing that comes up and as my job is going to involve a lot of social media from now, there’s a chance some important healthcare sort will stumble upon it and found out how much of an idiot I am, and how obsessed I am by variations of ‘foam Picard’ as a take on Hamlet’s ‘own petard’.


I meant to write more, but all the above took like two hours and I’m tired.