Flower blip...

Who?! Raheny_Eye? Walking back home... with a bouquet of roses?!?
Nah. Go away. Naaaaah.

Ok, cool your jets people. Do not hit that unsubscribe/subscribe button just yet. Read on...

There is a force stronger than the cynic in me.
It's the cheapo in me.
The cheapo in me is actually stronger than any of the other meez.
So when Nobuko (not her real name) from work PMed me to offer me a bouquet of roses, I had to think fast. And ask the two right questions.

a- you're not asking me to be your Valentine, roigh? (the answer was a most definite and most horrified "nooooooo!!!")
b- you're actually giving me an unwanted bouquet of flowers, roigh? (the answer was yes, definitely. But I owe her a favour back, take a photograph of her cats maybe. I feel a little bit sorry for her unwanted suitor)

This is how I happened to walk back home with a big fockoff bouquet of flowers (I decided against cycling back home, my Lance-on-undetectable-steroids speed would have been detrimental to the well being of the petals).
And I learned a valuable (for free!) lesson in the process:

a- girls look at you differently
b- guys look at you differently

for very different reasons.

For the blokes, it's quite easy, the natural reaction is "what a tosser!". How could he possibly give in to that unashamedly commercial masquerade when the cost of that bouquet could buy you at least 3 rounds of drinks.

For the girls, it is a tough one to assess. They like the look of it. But I suspect not for the right reasons. They really appreciate the fact that you are willing to publicly make an arse of yourself in front of your male counterparts.
But not as in making an arse of yourself getting third degree burns while entering a fart-on-the-candle contest. No, that one would get you a lot of bloke street cred.

They like the fact that you make an arse of yourself in the presence of other guys for their sake.

The other bit of (free!) entertainment was the look on Mrs Raheny's face when I got back home.

With the right eye she was quickly assessing the monetary value of the offering (at least EUR50, wayyyyyyy out of character).
With the left she was scrutinising me to verify that the amount spent was indeed proportional to the amount of guilt I was trying to hide (none).

Then she thought she had the answer and asked me if I had won it in a draw.

Anyway, she's gone to the emergency doc with a Finnzer who's had worrying abdominal cramps for two days.

She'll get her panfried salmon and polenta and potato roasties with Chablis premier cru extravaganza when she gets back home and the Finnzer (hopefully) settles for a night sleep.

Because that's the way that I give in to that unashamedly commercial masquerade. With fine food and a nice wine.

Roses taste shite.