I like to fill all the vases in our home with fresh flowers, for no other reason than looking at them makes me feel happy.
They brighten up any grey old day and as I work from home, I feel I really do get to appreciate them.
Every week, I pick out a few small bunches of whatever catches my eye and arrange them in different rooms of the house.
The Greek God(zilla) thinks this is a total waste of money as he feels they serve no family purpose.
I feel the same can be said for ‘our’ subscription to Sky Sports, but he has no such problem with this. Obviously.
So, when the rose bush planted in our back garden bloomed last week, he wasted no time in heading out there and picking stems of roses for me.
I KNOW! This also made me happy.
Arrays of pretty red roses decorated every vase in the house. Every time I passed them, I would smile and think fond thoughts of my husband.
However, after a few days they were not looking quite so pretty anymore and I was scooping up stray petals from the carpet every 20-minutes.
“I think the flowers are dead” I suggested to the Greek God(zilla), as he is in charge of removing all dead things from the house.
I also hoped this might incentivise him to pick me more flowers from the garden. Especially as the fond thoughts I would therefore continue to have of him would serve a family purpose.
I was looking as those poor naked stems in their muddy water for days, until yesterday I emptied all the vases myself and refilled them with fresh daffodils purchased with the weekly shop.
I can now see sunny yellow out of the corner of my eye wherever I look and this makes me feel happy again.
Except I came downstairs this morning to find both vases in the living room to be completely bare.
Not a single daff in sight.
Did I imagine buying them?
Had our 4-year old gotten hold of them and used them to dress the dinosaur scene he was busy creating on the coffee table?
“Did you move the flowers?” I called upstairs to the Greek God(zilla) who was busy watching Netflix in bed.
“I threw them out love, they were drooping”.
Two-week old roses picked by his own fair hands from the garden, but with barely a petal between them he ignores; but a day-old droopy daffodil of mine is efficiently banished to the recycling bin without a second thought.
I think I will be applying a similar logic when re-organising ‘our’ recordings on the tv planner later this afternoon.
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