Say it with Flowers

Urgh, the world is still a disaster. I could talk about La Belle France, or the Jordanian Carnage, or hazard a guess how the hell the proposed channels between Gaza and West Bank are going to work. But I can't be bothered, I have no solutions to impart right now. Especially when I have a funny story to share with you all.

So I got home this evening after a long day at the office(s) and as I was fumbling towards my door, what did I see but THE most beautiful bunch of flowers lying on my doormat. All my favourites: sunflowers, roses, odd green bits and even a lone orchid-like creation (he he) in a brown paper package tied up with string.

I'm so easily pleased, me: Bunch of flowers, and I'm putty. But I was at a loss: Who on earth had sent me such a thoughtful and beautiful (not to mention expensive) bouquet? And, more to the point, why? The mind boggled, not without some excitement. I opened the card, unsure as to what I would find, and lo and behold...

"Life Begins At 40!" ("!החיים מתחילים בגיל -40 " -sounds even better in Hebrew)

No name. No signature. No way these are for me, unless these are, sci-fi spookily, 11 years early. Although, it did briefly cross my mind that contrary to my assumptions, these were from my mother, in revenge for the fact that I have been delighting in torturing her with the notion that in a few months time she will have a daughter over 30 and will therefore be irreversibly ancient. But this seemed a little excessive a stunt even for her. Dolefully eyeing the flowers which, it was clear, had been left at my door in grievous error, I called the (posh as hell) flower shop from whence they came to make some hasty inquiries. The owner was clearly on his way home and had no time for me. "I just shut down the computer" he barked, "knock on a few doors! I don't remember the apartment number- perhaps a low one, I think..." slam.

Right. Well, my neighbour is definitely not 40. Nor is her dog or her toddler. Next floor: hmm. Where to start? Girl clutching bouquet presses bell and prepares for the inane conversation one strives to avoid with the majority of the oddbods whose address she shares. And don't judge me for that! Not everyone lives in Melrose bleedin' Place and can be arsed to be pleasant to people who still insist on shaking their head at you every time you walk past them in the stairwell.

Ding Dong. Kid of 10 answers, sporting a Man U T-Shirt. I avert my eyes. "Hi, I live upstairs. Is it someone's birthday? These flowers were left for me by mistake, but I think they might be for one of your parents. If it's their Birthday..." trails off. Child looks singularly unimpressed, but confirms a mother's birthday. "How Old- 40?" Yes. Today: "She's Old!" he says, going off to fetch a vase, giving me the confidence when he returns to roll with my Good Neighbourly Vibe as I reluctantly hand over "my" beautiful flowers: "So, you like Manchester United?" Puzzlement. He's wearing them, for goodness sakes! Try again. "I like Liverpool." Blank Look. Ah yes, I must translate. "Menchezterrr Oo-nyy-ted? Lever-pull?" Something registers, he gives me a half-smile as he politelty closes the door on me. I wonder what on earth he told his mother: A crazy girl brought you flowers for your birthday! And I think she talked about football...

Well, I hope she's enjoying the flowers as much as I did for the 40 seconds I believed them to be mine. And I also hope that the old adage it isn't true in every case, or else I've got a boring 10.5 years left to sit out... maybe I should take up knitting?