I can’t believe what I heard on Friday night
The high respect that I once bore for my old friends of the past forty-something years has been dashed, dashed to a million splinters on the rocky shore of gay-ness.
And I suspect that at least one of my cousins may also be implicated
I am bereft
I cannot look them in the eye again, not in the same way, I may the only true male around these parts after last Friday.
On Friday night, on the way home from the pub my friends confessed to arranging flowers for fun and profit when they were young.
The pair who came out of the closet on Friday lived in the same street as my two cousins and I now await their confession, this thing could be bigger than Watergate, my friends and family, flower arrangers.
They confessed that at this time of year, the time of autumnal harvest festivals and the last flower shows of the season they would throw a tennis ball into a particularly well-kept garden in their neighbourhood, nip in for the ball and while there help themselves to samples of the produce grown therein.
Taking the snaffled flowers home they would then spend whole days in a shed with a vase, cutting stalks and arranging their ill-gotten gains into the most pleasing of displays, arguing with each other as to whether the chrysanths should stand tall at the back or be closely cropped to fill out the frontage, before rushing down to their local social club to enter said display in the “junior” section of the flower arrangement competition.
I shake my head in despair as I type this.
How could they.
It gets worse.
They also confess to wandering the aisles of competition entries in admiration of the other work, and of taking notes to better their own efforts, before lining up for the results announcements and the opportunity to recieve the grand sum of 3/6d (about 17p) in prize money from our local big-wig Member of Parliament Sir Donald Kaberry.
“We did it for the money” they protested last night after witnessing my adverse reaction
“You are as camp as a row of pastel coloured tents” I uttered the words with no satisfaction, “My friends, my friends, how could you do this…”
“We were only eight…” they offered by way of compensation
And then one of them added that his older brother had won the baking award three years running for his rock cakes.
I am devastated.
IT WASNT ME !!
You mean he didn’t even save you one of the prize winning rock cakes!!!!
You need to excommunicate them from your life, real fast!
What, no quilters in the group?
I still have to get to the bottom of this, I have received mysterious phone calls in the dead of night urging me not to make any further disclosures or to pry to deeply, there are nervous family men out there who could be ruined by these flower arranging revelations…