I’m still waiting for the flowers.

I mean, I never expected breakfast, and I had lunch plans anyway, but surely… flowers weren’t too much to ask for. After all, it’s not like I even asked for them. They were offered – practically promised. In light of the evening we’d just shared, a girl should expect nothing less.

Picture it ladies, you’ve got that fresh out of bed, dishevelled look that all but invites your man back into bed with you. Only you don’t have a man. This stunning dark-haired lovely standing in your doorway isn’t yours… yet. He’s tall. We like tall. The street lamp catches a definite sparkle in his mischievous, yet sincere, eyes. And when he opens his mouth to apologize, a lovely Irish lilt escapes the lips that you’re almost certain are begging to be kissed by you. Tall, dark and Dublin. Just the way I like ‘em.

Have you ever awoken at 4am from a dream of your home being broken into? I have. Still in dream state, my eyes barely open, I awoke to see ― through the French doors that lead to the private garden outside my bedroom ― two dark figures. The only other way into the garden is through my flatmate’s room, but she’s on the Isle of Wight this week. Discarding the “I’m imagining things” impulse… I stepped closer, pressing my face up against the thin sheet of glass that separated me from them. I’m all alone and there are two men breaking into my flat.

“You’re going to want to get out of my yard!” I belted, rather authoritatively.

This resulted in convincing frightened cat impressions from the two of them, as they sprung backwards, two feet in the air. Not far enough for my liking. What then ensued was the most blundering of apologies and drunken backstory. It soon became evident that these boys were but drunken visitors to the brother of girl who does indeed live one floor above me. Just as I was listening to the two bungling would-be criminals discuss roof slants and tiles amidst colourful expletives, my doorbell rang.

Enter Tall, Dark and Dublin. At my front door stood the type of man women dream of magically showing up on our doorsteps. He smiled a winning (and pleading smile).

“Please don’t call the police. My friends are idiots.”

We were in agreement. I wouldn’t call the police, but I would let this silver-tongued, crisp shirted, tasty looking boy apologize to me a little longer. After all, the more we spoke, the greater his chance of looking passed my baggy unmatching men’s pajamas and envision the physical perfection my “Hot Chihuahua” pjs enveloped. (Yes, I’m afraid it’s a definite that when a gorgeous man unexpectedly walks into your life in the middle of the night, you will be wearing your most unattractive nightie.) After clearly coveting my every curve and longing to run his hands through my silken, dark, glorious (bedhead) hair, this dark stranger would soon find himself no longer able to make excuses for his trusty sidekicks and instead turn his focus to making amends with me. Clearly he’d startled this damsel out of her (hardly needed) beauty sleep. A gentleman could do no less than make the following promise:

“I owe you breakfast. Let me take you to breakfast in the morning.”

As desperate as I’d know I’d be to see this welcome intruder in a few hours time, I knew there was no way these guys would be awake for breakfast. And if he was sober, he’d know it too.

“Flowers then. I have to get you flowers. Thank you for… being the kind of woman every man goes to bed longing for”… is what he said in my head. His actual thanks was for “being so great” or something equally lame. With that, we said our good nights.

It’s been two days now.


I’m still waiting for the flowers...