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An Act of Terror
So Intrepidette had to put in an extra day of non-compensated work during the weekend. Being the sympathetic sort, I decided to send some flowers to her office to perk her up.
I knew where to get the flowers (florist chain near my place), what flowers to get (sunflowers- for their cheerfulness), how many to get (three- because good things come in them... I think), where to deliver them to (no mean feat, considering my near legendary disregard for written addresses) as well as what time to deliver them (subtle questioning of her brother and herself).
Piece of cake right?
Wrong.
The delivery person called me up sometime later, telling me that he could not get into the office building and was stuck at the back gate. The florist, despite my earlier warning that security is tight, called me to complain that the delivery person was made to wait ignominiously outside the building. The delivery person called me again to tell me Intrepidette wasn't picking up her phone. The florist called me back to ask me what I wanted them to do, and then slyly suggested that I pay double the delivery charges for the delivery man to make a second trip back. Snowball's chance in hell, I thought but wisely did not add.
This was followed by a frantic phonecall to Intrepidette, hence ruining the surprise. Conversely, I was the one who was surprised when she told me she thought it was a real-life terror attack. (Gruff Man: Come down and unlock the back door! I have a secret parcel for you but the @#%$ security won't let me in! Yep. I can see where she was coming from.)
A half-assed attempt to explain myself ("Erm. Yes... It's from me. No... it's not a bomb. No... it won't trigger a security alarm. Yes- Just go down ok?") was then followed by two phone calls to the delivery man and florist to soothe their ruffled feathers. Those were subsequently followed by reassuring my parents (I was lunching with them and they only managed to catch assorted snatches of my side of the phone conversations so far) that no, Intrepidette's office was not hit by suicide bombers bearing deadly TNT parcels.
I'm not sure what the moral of this story should be, but next time you have the odious misconception that sending flowers to an office in Raffles Place is easy and romantic (the TV dramas and ads... they lie), you may well be surprised. Oh and hon, you're my favourite daydream too.
Filed under: Personal
I knew where to get the flowers (florist chain near my place), what flowers to get (sunflowers- for their cheerfulness), how many to get (three- because good things come in them... I think), where to deliver them to (no mean feat, considering my near legendary disregard for written addresses) as well as what time to deliver them (subtle questioning of her brother and herself).
Piece of cake right?
Wrong.
The delivery person called me up sometime later, telling me that he could not get into the office building and was stuck at the back gate. The florist, despite my earlier warning that security is tight, called me to complain that the delivery person was made to wait ignominiously outside the building. The delivery person called me again to tell me Intrepidette wasn't picking up her phone. The florist called me back to ask me what I wanted them to do, and then slyly suggested that I pay double the delivery charges for the delivery man to make a second trip back. Snowball's chance in hell, I thought but wisely did not add.
This was followed by a frantic phonecall to Intrepidette, hence ruining the surprise. Conversely, I was the one who was surprised when she told me she thought it was a real-life terror attack. (Gruff Man: Come down and unlock the back door! I have a secret parcel for you but the @#%$ security won't let me in! Yep. I can see where she was coming from.)
A half-assed attempt to explain myself ("Erm. Yes... It's from me. No... it's not a bomb. No... it won't trigger a security alarm. Yes- Just go down ok?") was then followed by two phone calls to the delivery man and florist to soothe their ruffled feathers. Those were subsequently followed by reassuring my parents (I was lunching with them and they only managed to catch assorted snatches of my side of the phone conversations so far) that no, Intrepidette's office was not hit by suicide bombers bearing deadly TNT parcels.
I'm not sure what the moral of this story should be, but next time you have the odious misconception that sending flowers to an office in Raffles Place is easy and romantic (the TV dramas and ads... they lie), you may well be surprised. Oh and hon, you're my favourite daydream too.
Filed under: Personal
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