My mother would not have dreamed of buying herself flowers. It would have seemed frivolous and self-indulgent. I don’t think it would even have occurred to her to please herself in this way and yet she never skimped on face cream and smoked her way through a small fortune. I suppose those were the things that brought her pleasure.
I have not inherited her floral mean streak. My not so guilty pleasure is petal shaped.
I am a careless money waster, known for my spontaneous and unwise financial decisions. I might turn the thermostat down and tell everyone to put on an extra sweater or make the Sunday roast last until Wednesday. I might darn a sock or patch a quilt. And all the time I’m sitting at the kitchen table taking great joy in the bunch of flowers that tumbled into my shopping basket that week.
That said, even a floral money waster like myself balked at the price of the supermarket Peonies. So imagine my delight when I turned the corner and spotted a weary bunch marked down to almost nothing in the bargain bucket.
Rescued Peonies! I feel positively thrifty and a floral saviour to boot.
Imagine if they had been left to wallow in their drooped dismay. What if they’d been tipped in the skip at the close of day? Such wasted opportunity! All that patient growth might have gone to waste. It’s a very good thing I spotted their plight.
And so I’ve savoured every second of their floral splendour. Watched as the fat buds unfurled and opened wide. Admired the petals raised skywards, like a yogic salute to the sun. I’ve paused each time I’ve passed this floral table show, stopped in my tracks by their beauty. I have bathed in their sheer generosity.
My mother might not have approved but I say, what ho! Not a penny was wasted.