It was over mezze and pomegranate prosecco with The Writer and his friend Mag Man that I recently found myself extolling the virtues of flowers.
TW had said some very kind things about this blog and my witterings for the lovely chaps over at Blokely which caused MM to ask after the sorts of things I write.
“Well, I’m a bit stuck at the moment, actually,” I said, wolfing down an indecent amount of baba ghanoush.
“You should do some constructive how-to guides on how to make women happy,” MM suggested, diving in to rescue a piece of halloumi before I inhaled that too (God, I love Lebanese food).
Which is how we came to be talking about flowers, and men buying them for girls.
Flowers really are such a winner, I honestly don’t know why men don’t give them on a regular basis, and I remain convinced that an impromptu bunch will do wonders for any relationship, whether blooming, flagging, or somewhere between the two.
There’s something utterly wonderful about receiving flowers that will put me in a good mood for the rest of the day, if not the week, and there isn’t a woman I know who doesn’t like receiving them. Even those who have hay fever love nothing more than a beautiful bunch of something, and they have the added bonus of not making you feel fat (see: wrongly-sized underwear) or guilty (boxes of too-tempting, fattening chocolates (possibly leading to underwear that no longer fits. See above)).
The mere fact that a chap’s bought them shows he’s been thinking about you at some point during the day, and being the vain creatures that we are, I’m almost certain it’s the knowledge of that, more than the present itself, that we really love.
Both boys looked at me slightly bemused as I rattled off a list of dos, don’ts and don’t even think abouts in opinionated fashion, paying particular attention to why flowers should never be given as an apology and why sending them to the office should stand you in the very best stead possible even if you’re about to tell her you’re spending your anniversary on a stag do in an Estonian lap dancing club.
“Well,” MM said, clearly faintly stunned that there could possibly be so much to consider. “Maybe I should do that for my girlfriend. Yes, I think I'll send her some flowers.”
And then, just a day or so later, as I battled my way through King’s Cross at the end of a long day, I saw a man standing on the concourse carrying a single red rose.
Thus, I have my calling: to persuade mankind that the giving of flowers to women will make said women happier, even if I have to do so, one chap, and one single rose at a time.
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