2591. Old Mrs Handisides’ garden

Old Mrs Handisides (Hannah to her friends although her real name was Allison) lived alone in a little cottage surrounded by what was once a cottage garden and now was a substantial plot of weeds. Once, a few years back, she had made an effort to do something with the garden, but she was not a gardener by nature. She had known a farmer up the road who let her collect buckets of cow manure which she spread on the garden. All that succeeded in doing was to propagate species of weeds that weren’t there before.

Mind you, having an unkempt plot of land didn’t stick out a mile in the neighbourhood. Most of those with some sort of lawn and garden space around their house had let things go more than a little bit. In fact, the street had quite a reputation.

Young Ocean McDonald lived with her parents next door to Old Mrs Handisides. She was all of twelve and interested in gardening. Unfortunately her parents had no garden whatsoever. Ocean McDonald visited Old Mrs Handisides and asked if she could have a little garden – on her side of the house – so they could see it from where they lived.

Old Mrs Handisides was delighted. “You can have as much garden as you like. And I’ll get you some pretty flowering plants you can use.”

“My father has already got me some flowers as well,” said Ocean. “So it’s all go.”

Within weeks the side garden was a picture. Ocean spread to the front of the house; and to the back of the house. It was a veritable symphony of colour! People would stop in the street and say WOW!  Sometimes Ocean McDonald’s father would come over and give his daughter a hand. He seemed as keen about gardening as his daughter. That was when the police came and arrested Old Mrs. Handisides for growing marijuana and opium poppies in her flower beds.

2532. The power of flowers

Jacob seemed a nice enough sort of guy. Caroline’s parents seemed happy that she was going out with him, and for a while Caroline was very happy too. Then things began to turn sour.

At first it was just little things, but the little things grew aplenty and now there were little and big things. Caroline started to resent Jacob. She thought she actually might hate him. She didn’t even like being in the same room as him.

Caroline’s parents were very open about it, although they did say to Caroline that he was ä very nice boy and “you couldn’t really find better than that.” However, Caroline called the whole thing off.

“It’s over,” she said to Jacob. “Finished. Caput.”

Jacob was devastated. He sent Caroline a big bunch of flowers from the florist. It must have cost a packet. They melted Caroline’s heart. The scent was beautiful. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad fellow after all. Caroline thought she should maybe give him another go.

Caroline sniffed the flowers. The bunch exploded.

2516. Roses

Hudson loved growing flowers. To be fair, no one was sure he was into flowers in a big way because he liked gardening or because he won every bloom competition there was and he was into the glory of winning. Be that as it may, Hudson grew flowers and would spend an inordinate amount of time in his garden.

Coming up was the annual rose competition. There were a number of categories but the prize that Hudson had his eyes on was “The Supreme Rose Trophy”. The winner’s name each year was engraved on a little metal plaque and attached to a large shield hanging in the local hall. Hudson had the perfect rose. The timing was going to be perfect. It was as if the Fates had conspired for him to be the winner.

Two days before the rose exhibition something phenomenal happened. Hudson was in his garden and an alien space craft landed on his property. Two aliens emerged from the craft. They approached Hudson. Could he spare a little sugar? Their highly sophisticated craft ran on sugar and they were out of such fuel. Just a cup would be fine.

“Of course,” said Hudson. “I shall go into the house and get it.”

A few moments later Hudson reappeared. He carried a gun. He shot the two aliens dead.

They had landed on his roses.

2405. Pretty geraniums

Samantha’s next door neighbour, Anastasia, grew geraniums. There was a whole row of geraniums growing right along the boundary fence on Anastasia’s side. The gaps in the slats of the fence meant that Samantha could get her hand through the fence with a pair of scissors and pick a bunch of geraniums for her dining room table. Not that she cut them all from the same plant; just a bloom or two from here and there.

And of course the geranium flowering season lasted for months and months. Samantha was never short of floral arrangements during spring, summer, and autumn. Such lovely reds and pinks and whites to brighten the dullest of days!

There was a knock at Samantha’s door. It was Anastasia. Could she borrow a cup of sugar?

“Come in! Come in!” said Samantha, quite forgetting the pilfered geranium arrangement on her dining table.

“Oh look!” said Anastasia, “I have geraniums in my garden exactly like that.”

“I know,” said Samantha. “It’s what inspired me to go to the market and buy these!”

“Would you like some plants?” asked Anastasia. Oh yes, indeed!

That evening, Anastasia pulled out her geraniums, sprayed them with weed killer, and threw them over the fence. She wanted to grow agapanthuses anyway.

2356. My Valentine

Look, I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day. It’s yet another thing invented by sales people to make a buck or two. Those who sell chocolates and roses and cards must be making a packet. They’re swimming in dough. So for that reason I don’t support such superficial observances.

My friend, Sandra, commemorates Valentine’s Day. Her boyfriend always sends her a dozen roses; although he never lets on that it’s him, but we all know it’s him that sends them. Sandra is always over the moon and goes sloppy and it’s pathetic to see her go on and on about love and nonsense. She’s like a wet dishcloth when it comes to love – all a bit slimy and yucky. I’m not surprised she would commemorate something as phoney as Valentine’s. I’m not into bogus things like that.

This is the second year that no one has sent me flowers.

2311. My secret admirer

It’s amazing. Every Thursday around three o’clock flowers are delivered to my house. Today is Friday, and yesterday the florist delivered a gorgeous bunch of red carnations. They were bright, bright red. I don’t know much about the meaning of flowers but secretly I was hoping that red carnations might stand for love.

It is so exciting to think that I have a secret admirer; in fact, more than that; someone who is infatuated by me. It could well be that. This business of flowers being delivered around three every Thursday has been going on for several months. It would cost a pretty penny.

I’ve wracked my brain as to the identity of this secret admirer. I even put a search online for “the meaning of flowers” as perhaps there is a clue in the variety of flowers that arrive. But most weeks I don’t even know the names of the flowers that are delivered. I know carnations and roses but that’s about itl. I can’t even spell some of the flower names you hear.

I was thrilled yesterday when the bunch of red carnations was delivered. I’ve never had red carnations before so I’m thinking that my secret lover might be getting more serious.

Excuse me. I’ve got to dash. Today is Friday – as I said. The florist is not open on weekends. I have to order next week’s flowers before the florist shuts. Perhaps next week I’ll get sunflowers! They are such a happy flower, and I don’t much like spending Christmas alone.

2193. I’m pleased to be a bee

Let me tell you; I just love being a bee. Some say that the Queen Bee is a slave-driver, but I can say without a skerrick of doubt – I’m no slave. My job is to go around collecting pollen. I love it, love it. It gives me a buzz.

And it’s so interesting. My area of expertise is a nearby flower garden. There’s such variety. One day it’s a poppy and the next day it’s an agapanthus. I like to mix up the pollen from all sorts. Of course, I get criticized for it: “This is primarily a tea-tree hive,” the other bees claim. “We are here to make tea-tree honey. It’s one of the more expensive varieties in shops” But I don’t care. A little bit of variety never hurt anyone.

Just the other day the Queen Bee commended me for my dedication to duty. I said, “It’s nothing Your Majesty. I am here to serve and it’s an honour to work for you.”

The other bees called me a “greaser”; I was greasing up the Queen because I wanted a promotion. How silly! There’s really no higher for a female worker bee to go. I’m content with my lot. How awful to be a drone. Those males sit around doing nothing but wait for an opportunity to do their business.

The other day, Alexandra was attacked by a human smashing around a rolled up newspaper. She had no option but to sting. But that’s the irony of being a bee; one stings to save ones life and having stung, one dies. Alexander passed away quite fast after her dramatic ordeal. The stinging was so sudden and so sad.

 Look, I haven’t got all day to talk. I have to get off to my garden. There’s a lady there now picking flowers. They’re laden with pollen. I’ll just take a quick dip in a flower before she takes the flowers off somewhere…

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help it. It was in self-defence.

2189. Garden weeding, garden wedding

It was to be an early Autumn wedding. The timing was so that Olga could prepare her substantial grounds and garden for the occasion. In fact, Olga had spent the entire Spring and Summer preparing for the occasion. The colours of the garden blooms would match the bridesmaid’s dresses. The pagoda was painted a garden green. The bridge over the huge frog pond was fixed. The work had been tireless. The wedding guests were invited to dress casual. Perhaps a straw hat might do the trick.

Of course, Olga could afford the time to prepare. She had retired early, if forty-seven could be considered early. The divorce had thrust a substantial income her way. She was now a woman of means; a creature of leisure. Except her preparations in the garden could hardly be called leisure; she was there morning, noon and night in rain, hail or shine. What a perfect wedding it was going to be for daughter Naomi!

A stunning mix of red and white dahlias lined the bridal path. The only unpretty point in the arrangement was that it would be ruined by her ex-husband stomping down the garden aisle. It would be a brief but ugly sight. Hopefully the radiance of the bride reflected in the dahlias would distract from her ugly ex.

Honestly, if an alien craft accidentally landed in Olga’s wedding garden they would undoubtedly have construed Earth to be the loveliest planet in the Cosmos.

All was ready. Olga’s daughter was to stay the night. Tomorrow was the day! At last! At last!

That night saw the biggest storm in over a century.

2122. A true professional

The thing was Trevor was sick of doing murders. He’d been paid to do murders for almost ten years. The fun had gone out of it.

Being a respectable owner of a florist shop had been a great cover-up. He was forever arranging flowers for special occasions. There had been many a time when he was paid to provide flowers for the funeral service of someone he’d murdered. That was always amusing! Every wreath for a victim had a red flower in it, no matter how tiny the red flower. Sometimes red would clash with the colours of the bouquet, so it had to be insignificant. Sometimes the whole wreath was a bold red. He had photographed every bunch and kept them orderly in a scrap book. Of course no one knew they were in fact a list of who was who; a list of his murder victims.

But now he was sick of it. He wanted to retire from the florist shop, and that meant murdering as a livelihood should come to an end as well.

So that’s what he did. It’s been five years. He spends his days in his little cottage by the sea, although he did take a trip overseas once but it wasn’t much to his liking. He’s taken up knitting as a hobby, mainly fluffy little woollen toys for toddlers. They’re quite cute.

Occasionally, just for the sake of old times, he poisons an ear of one of the little knitted critters.

2040. Erica’s flower salad

Erica was always one to surprise, so it was not unusual when her latest dinner party began with a salad made entirely of flower petals.

“It’s so pretty!” declared Erin.

“You’ve certainly exceeded all expectations this time,” said Eugene.

“When one dines at one of your dinners, “said Emile, “we can always expect to be surprised.”

Every guest, though daring, was a little tentative.

“Delicious!” expounded Evelyn stuffing a gladioli petal into her mouth. One suspected she made her declaration even before her taste buds had time to assimilate the mouth’s contents.

“Oh Erica! The mayonnaise!” glowed Emile. “Perfection!”

“Quite frankly,” said Savannah pushing her plate away, “I’m not a cow. I don’t eat everything I get put in front of me, and I couldn’t possibly stomach having to eat flowers. I have evolved a little further than being a muck-raking ruminant.”

Savannah was Emile’s partner. She was the only one at the table who (coincidentally) had a name that didn’t start with the letter E. It was only because of Erica’s largesse that Savannah was invited at all. No one liked her, not even Emile. Their relationship was one of convenience – whatever that meant. No one cared to ask.

“I don’t eat crap,” scorned Savanah. “I won’t touch this pile of disguised weeds.”

It was a pity because Erica had gone to considerable trouble to lace Savannah’s salad flowers with Poison Oak.