Just a quick update on the engagement.
I suppose given that this is the first Engagement Update, the big news is that I am engaged! Sorry to hold out on that piece of news for so long, I didn’t know if it would be entertaining enough for you. But, gosh-darn it, I’m excited so you can be too. We’ve now passed the half way mark of the engagement, and what with uni reaching its close, I’d say we’re well and truly on the home stretch. Grinning from ear to ear is now commonplace for the two of us.
Today I’d like to talk about flowers. You can’t make a cake without eggs, you can’t have a wedding without flowers (unless it’s a vegan cake and a hypo-allogetic wedding). In my limited experience with florists, I have found many of them to be polite and courteous. And who wouldn’t be, surrounded with pretty flowers all day long? Which is why it seems so out of place to meet an unpleasant florist. Nevertheless, they seem to exist.
The word ‘snooty’ comes to mind when I try to describe the nature of these thorns among roses. In Newcastle, at least, we don’t have snooty waiters, or snooty antique dealers, we have snooty florists. Lurking about their buds, waiting for a chance to launch an attack of snoot on an unsuspecting customer who had the audacity to expect anything more. I suppose I was tolerant of this before. After all, my purchases were little more than single bouquets. My custom represented the bottom rung of the flora market. “Only half a dozen roses?” he would say with his indifferent gaze. But, I have since discovered that the indifference is universal. My fiancé was treated the same way when she ordered our wedding flowers. I can understand that, for everybody except Anna and I, our wedding isn’t the wedding of the century. Nevertheless, it is surely enough to warrant the baser pleasantries. By all reports, the same level of snoot applies for everyone. It isn’t because the customers aren’t making large enough purchases, it is because they cannot possibly satisfy him. For him, beautiful flowers are just part of the daily grind. What is left for him to stop and smell once in a while?
I’m Tom of the Close, that’s what I think. What do you think?