I know lying is a bad and unforgivable thing, but I can’t help it.
Every single time the lovely florist at my local flower shop asks me if the flowers I’m purchasing are for home or a gift, I always say it’s a gift. ‘Yes! A gift! For a dear friend. A lovely friend. The most loved one of them all.’
The flowers are for me, and jack and our home, but mostly for me. Just me, myself and selfish old me.
Okay. I’ve seen the difference between the flower wrapping for a gift and the flower wrapping for home. And I want a gift. When I buy myself flowers it’s a special little treat. I’m splurging! I’m spoiling myself.
So maybe technically I’m not lying.
Even if it’s only for that five minute walk from the florist to my house I want to walk down the street with the prettiest bunch of flowers in hand.
So thank you, dear florist, for letting me feel special. I know you know that I lie to you sometimes, a total giveaway by my long and very obvious pause before answering you.