Free to a good home.

Random person with no intention of buying anything: “Hi!”

Me (and every florist, all over the world, ever, at some point): “Hi!”

RP: ” I was just wondering what you do with all the flowers you don’t sell?”

Me: *pretending confusion* “The flowers we don’t..?”

RP: “Yeah, because you can’t possibly sell all of these, right? So I thought I could just come along every few days and just pick up the ones that aren’t selling.”

Me: “So you want free flowers?”

RP: “Well, not FREE, exactly…but, you know…”

Me: “Actually, I don’t know. What do you want?”

RP: “Well, if you’re not going to sell it, then it’s just going to go in the bin, right?”

Me: *As if the light has dawned and, truly, I can see* “Oh, you want DEAD flowers! Sure!” *gestures to bin* “Help yourself!”

RP: “Well, no….I mean….they’re…dead.”

Me: “Uh huh?”

RP: “Oh FORGET IT.”

This is a question we get asked A LOT. I mean…really. Sure, we do throw some flowers away. It’s unavoidable in a business that deals with perishable goods. But we manage to keep on top of it by having a good buying system. We know our customers, we know how sales rise and fall over the month, we know how to discount flowers that are not entirely fresh, and so on. Flowers are not a necessity, they are a luxury item, and I HUGELY resent the implication that I am essentially throwing things away and then locking the bins so that people can’t Dumpster Dive for ‘perfectly good’ flowers that could otherwise be sold. Nobody starved because I threw away some manky alstroemeria, for God’s sake. What we DO do is give them to little kids to play with, or give them free to the people who work in a lot of the offices around the shop who already do business with us.

So there you go.  :-p

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Easily mistaken.

I came across this anecdote on the excellent notalwaysright.com which is mostly about retail woes, but sometimes, like this one, just about mad people, to which we can all relate, right?

I’m taking my cat in a carrier to the vet. (I don’t have a car, so I’m taking the bus; it’s mostly empty except for an older woman.)

Older Woman: “You go to vet?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s time for my girl’s checkup.”

Older Woman: “May I see?”

Me: “Sure.”

Older Woman: *pets my cat* “Oh, such soft fur. What dog?”

Me: “Oh, she’s not a dog. She’s a cat.”

Older Woman: “Rare to see such soft dog. Good Brushing!”

Me: “Again, thank you, but she’s a cat.”

Older Woman: “And well behaved! Dogs bark!”

Cat: “Meow!”

Older Woman: “You and your cat have good day!”

A.K.A

I really wish people would use their right names when sending flowers. I have absolutely no desire to call a customer and say “Good afternoon, am I speaking with Miss Muffin ‘funbags’ Willoughby?”

Is it me you’re looking fleur?

Woman: *Shouting through miniscule gap in very obviously closed and shuttered doors. I mean, really shut. When our shop is shut, if you think it’s still open then you must be used to shopping on the Gaza Strip.* “Helloooooo! Hellooooo! Can I buy some Flowers??”

Me: “I’m sorry…we’re closed. I’m cashing up.”

Woman: “Well you shouldn’t leave your FUCKING LIGHTS ON, then!”

Me: “You want me to cash up in the dark?”

Woman: “Oh, Fuck OFF!”

Listen Carefully.

Customer: “Do you have any really small Christmas trees?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry. Our smallest one is 4 foot”

Customer: “I need a very small one. Do you have one smaller than that?”

Me: “What, you mean, like a 3 foot one?”

Customer: “Yes! That would be great. I’ll take one!”

Me: “I’m sorry sir, we only have 4 foot ones and up.”

Customer: “But you just said… Oh. Wait.”

Hands across the Nations.

7am. 23rd April. *Just walked through the door at work, followed in by a man wanting a buttonhole for St George’s day.  I inwardly cringe, cursing that I will have to spend the whole day making red rose buttonholes for gormless racists, and then tell myself to not to pigeonhole people*

Man: “At least you know what a buttonhole is, love!”

Me: “Pardon?”

Man: “Not like them FUCKING Russians at the other shop!”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Man: ” Didn’t speak a word of FUCKING English!”

Me: “Ehrm, They’re Latvian and Polish, I think. I talk to them all the time. In English.”

Man: “Whatever. How much?”

Me: “Five Pounds. Sir.”

Man: “Fucking Liberty, you ask me. FIVE POUNDS???”