Pretty much the best moment of my working week (cos let’s face it, even I don’t get to visit the museum for work every week) is around 11am on a Friday when Russell the flower man comes in.

He has a van full of cheapass blooms and an ever-so-slightly sleazy demeanour. But I still get excited when he strolls into the office bellowing “this is a flower alert”. I don’t get quite as excited about the muzak song he sometimes plays on repeat, synthetic horns heralding “the Flower King”.

Lately my floral obsession is dahlias. Been rocking white ones for the last couple weeks but this week I splashed out and got a mixed colour bunch, and some tuber roses. Truly, there are two awesome names for plants right there. One sounds like a malignant growth that somehow smells lovely, and the other seems coined by some bingo-winged tuckshop lady. “Aw, what flowers yer got there luv? Daaaaaaahlias daaaahl!”

Anyway, the one downside of buying flowers on a Friday is that often there will be a few detours before they get delivered home. This dahlia mission was not without casualties. The bunches sustained a general thrashing on my bike rack as I headed in to the city to meet some old friends. Heads rolled while we massacred some all-you-can-meat churrasco. And my tuber roses disappeared completely when Sylv thoughtfully donated them to a waitress.
Speaking of casualties. Like so many men on bucks’ nights, Big Red spent last night chained to a pole in Kings Cross. I hope she made it through the night unmolested.

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