Thirteen years ago as I was emerging from an exam-room having just written 3 intrepid essays on the novels of Henry James, I spied a man I didn't know very well, a man who didn't even live in England who was waiting to congratulate me with a large, well wrapped bouquet of flowers. I was excessively pleased to see him there. I was actually a little bit astonished, because I just wasn't the sort of girl that people went to such lengths for. I answered my champion’s kind exam enquiries with a breathless politeness, my nervous inky fingers trembling slightly. My fellow students were all wry smiles and coy winks as he introduced the blooms into my arms. We made a date for later and then he disappeared off into the afternoon streets. It was then that I looked at his offering properly. I felt my features lurching towards a wince but I wynched them back, sharpish, into a close approximation of a smile. It was a bunch of brown chrysanthemums he had given me. ‘Oh’, I thought, disappointment ripening in my stomach closely followed by feelings of shame about my disappointment. As omens go, it was not good.

How times have changed. Telephoning a local florist to arrange for a bunch of flowers to be delivered to a friend this morning I rather wished I had commissioned a psychologist’s report first, because the number of questions I was asked about her was really quite daunting. ‘Well....she is quite an ethereal sort of person, I began, but not at all murky...not Virginia Woolf-y.’ I didn't want a bouquet in sage and mustard tones. ‘She’s very conscientious and intelligent. She wouldn't like anything that looked sentimental. Or too contrived.’ I tried to picture the sort of bunch suitable for someone who didn't suffer fools. ‘Rather than you arranging them carefully, I think she’d like something that looked a bit ‘’plonked’’’, I added helpfully.

We then moved on to the ‘colours of her apartment.’ Well, there’s a big damp patch on her sitting room wall, I didn't say. The man on the phone was getting a little impatient with me. ‘We have some amazingly chic beige roses’ he suggested. ‘Black anemones with maybe some dark berries for drama...ranuncula in clashing shades, intense and autumnal....’ ‘I know! I know! Something classical but loose and luxurious,’ I cried suddenly getting the hang of it. ‘A bit French still life.’ ‘Well, you could do an enormous bunch of Casablanca lilies, in swathes of tissue paper, but frankly, it’s been done. What sort of music does she like?’ This was harder, even, than selecting a gift. I didnt realise you had to distill the essence of a person and try to mirror it with an original and correct selection of blooms. ‘This is a floral minefield,’ I uttered, admiring the picture this phrase conjured in my mind.

Things are so complicated. The world of flowers , like almost every other arena that involves large amounts of choosing, is now, of course,a fully fledged adjunct to the fashion industry. Even Christmas decorations, I was told by a woman in Paperchase, reflect the colours of the catwalk - ‘so there’s not much red and green this year.’ ‘But the shops are full of red and green clothes,’ I reasoned. ‘Whose catwalk do you mean? And when? The autumn winter clothes shown last spring, the spring summer collectios from the recent autumn shows? Cruise lines? Couture? ‘Please don't do this’, her pained expression implored.

Finally I decided upon a large bunch of blue hyacinths, a thinking person’s flower, delicate but robust with a nod to Van Gogh’s humility. ‘All right then,’ the florist replied. I felt his approval coursing down the telephone line. Together we had addressed the matter with sensitivity and a certain creative flair. I felt content, at least I did until I was just about to replace the receiver and thought I heard him cackle ‘ Oy, Pamela! We’ve got a right one here!’