A Rosey Story

A rose from my Dad's garden...

A rose from my Dad’s garden…

Any rose will always have a special place in my heart and here’s reminiscing my own love story…fifteen Summers and two kids later…

There was an unusual commotion in my office. The two Salesmen, the two Storemen, the two Managing Directors and the Accountant were crowding around my desk whilst I was trying to hide the feeling of suffocation from the overpowering smell of seven different types of aftershave. We were all staring at a bouquet of beautifully arranged red roses resting on my desk. I was the only female who worked in that office so I wasn’t particularly comfortable in sharing my personal life story with these seven male work colleagues. However, it didn’t seem like I had a choice since they were all standing around me and simultaneously breathing on the back of my head waiting eagerly for me to announce whom the flowers came from. My colleagues’ eagerness resembled the seagulls flying around Circular Quay waiting desperately for some Japanese tourists to throw a couple of chips at them. As I was pretending to be busy with work (—as you do) a little later after lunch that day, a courier came up to deliver what appeared to be a dozen of red roses. Although it was a pleasant surprise, I was only half-interested to find out who it was from. I was quite suspicious that it would be either from the younger-than-me-dole-bludging-long-dark-haired-drummer or from the older-than-me-long-blonde-haired-BMW-driving-wanker (–pardon my French) whom I both dated briefly (–not at the same time okay?). As I was feeling the unnecessary pressure from the unwanted prying of work colleagues and feeling indifferent at the same time, I picked up the pink envelope that came with the roses and hesitantly read the card in silence. The writing on the little white card said this “Dear Maria, If you wish to receive the twelfth rose, please meet me at Queen Victoria statue at Queen Victoria Building. Your secret admirer, Vaughan. Date and Time.” I must admit, after reading the card, my indifference vanished completely and a sense of excitement grew a little then I started counting the flowers. There were only eleven roses indeed. Much to my surprise and everyone’s disappointment, in my unusually timid manner, I announced to the small crowd before me that I didn’t know who Vaughan was. (–I wondered who were they expecting the roses have been delivered from? George Clooney?) They slowly dissipated walking back to their own workstation like a football crowd after a grand finals game. We all then continued to our own individually unique pretence to look flat-out with work shuffling papers around and randomly pressing keys in the keyboard whilst looking blankly at the monitor. Around mid afternoon, as I started to feel the flattery of having a secret admirer sinking in, Bill (–the much nicer Managing Director) who was not pretending to have been busy came up to me and said, “You’re safe to meet up with him!” He said this after spending at least one and half hours that afternoon ringing companies located along Adderley Street in Silverwater (–where we worked) attempting to find the bloke who sent the flowers so he could sus him out. He was obviously successful in finding my so called ‘secret admirer’. I’m still deciding whether my Boss was being utterly nosy or he really cared about me or he had nothing else to do that afternoon…

To cut the long convoluted story short…I satisfied my own curiosity and followed my generally correct gut instinct. I braved the 12th rose blind date invitation and met a wonderful person named Vaughan. It was very safe indeed. That night, Vaughan gave me the 12th rose. Five Springs and one Summer after that night, we got married. Fifteen Summers and two kids later, we will celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary a week before Christmas. A decade and a half didn’t feel that long. We are certainly having fun!

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