Digger, a man who takes after my own skinflinting heart is, to be brutally honest, not very great in the romance stakes. He quite rightly knows if he turned up with the somewhat ‘traditional’ gifts of chocolates, perfume or lingerie, I would quite probably ask him how much it was and whether he still had the receipt. If asked to say something deep and meaningful he always wrangles his way out of it by using the excuse “my English isn’t good enough for that” which is a complete fib and were he Pinocchio then his nose would almost reach to Bulgaria by now on it’s own accord.
What Digger is pretty good at however, is a little bit of thrifty relocation-ing . At this time of year, many of his customers are away for long periods, and he sees the literal and metaphorical fruits of his and their labour fall dead and rotting to the ground. Does a tree falling in the forest make a sound if there is no one to hear it? Does a rose bloom and delight if there is no one there to smell it’s scent? Of course not, which is why it makes perfect sense to relocate those poor unloved blooms with absentees owners to me. No garage forecourt cellophane wrapped inconsequentials for me, oh no. I arrive home today to these.
Romance is dead? Long live romance!