Last week hubby and I ventured to the local garden centre as we needed to order a new rose for our garden to replace the one we had been given as a present from his mother and had managed to kill.
Going to a garden centre is not really our thing and at this point I feel the need to explain to my Finnish friends what a garden centre is, as the name is quite misleading to a Finn. You see, a garden centre is the ultimate destination for 70-90 year olds who go there for a daytrip, it normally has a large cafeteria and sells everything from tacky indoor ornaments to clothes, food and greeting cards whilst the plants and garden furniture take up only 25% of the space. So there we are, out of our comfort zone, midweek, during the day, at peak time of the blue rinse brigade.
We manage to successfully order our rose (aptly named Anne Boleyn) and start negotiating our way to the tills. Now, for some reason most garden centres seem to have adopted the layout and floorplan of IKEA, forcing us to go through every possible department we would like to avoid. This is when hubby for some unexplainable reason decided to stop and have a look at the Farmer’s Food department with me carrying on to the greeting cards section. Soon realising that hubby has been gone for quite a while, I decide to retrace my steps only to find him in the frozen food section being cornered by an 80-year old lady. You might think I’m overreacting, but no, she is definitely chatting him up, openly flirting with him and almost leaning on him whilst purring into his ear.
Thinking that hubby is going to be scarred for life, we leave the lady behind, rush through the tills and head towards the doors. I’m still not sure whether to be bemused or horrified by the event and I am genuinely worried for my husband’s wellbeing when I suddenly notice a new found spring in his step and he triumphantly exclaims: “See! You didn’t know I was such a pussy magnet!”
Yep, he has found his niche market as us marketing people say.