One of us in this very room is in fact the murderer

ShortFlowerCuts

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“One of us in this very room is in fact the murderer.” ― Agatha Christie

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“I can hear them screaming.” I replied, explaining something logical which in my mind seemed logical, when my partner asked me why I did not like receiving cut flowers as a gift.

He did not give me the furrowed brow look of someone who is briefly cogitating my answer to their question and preparing to refute it in some way because they have an agenda, which in this instance would be to force cut flowers upon me as a ‘gift’ and have me accept them with gratitude, joy, or something along those lines which will make them feel good about the act they have just committed because they perceive their act as being one which is very good.

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“People who can be very good can be very bad too.” ― Agatha Christie

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An act which by the usual standards of society and Romcoms is supposed make a lady wet her knickers with delight, such is its goodness.

All ladies are apparently desperate to receive flowers from their admirers, especially secret ones.

All ladies are apparently also more than elated when entering their private quarters to find that some intruder has broken in and filled the place with cut flowers. This must be love… nothing creepy about it at all. No invasion of privacy or boundaries trespassed which would warrant a justified homicide based on a defense that someone who serially kills that many flowers and thinks it’s a good thing to flaunt it… may consider you a flower too which at some point may also get killed as a good thing too, because flowers are at their most beautiful in their prime and cutting their life short is the only way to keep them suspended in beauty… for a while longer anyway.

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“Do you know my friend that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desire and aptitudes?”

― Agatha Christie

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I’m not a lady. Even my imagination which is quite elastic can’t stretch that far.

I’m also not a fan of cut flowers.

Anyone who knows me, knows that.

A true admirer would not only know that but admire it as being a part of everything which is admirable about me.

Just the idea of me being admirable and worthy of admiration makes me want to chuckle like a deranged loon. But the root of that is for another post… maybe.

A true admirer would not give me a bouquet of flowers.

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“There speaks the passion and the rebellion that go with red hair. My second wife had red hair. She was a beautiful woman, and she loved me. Strange, is it not? I have always admired red-haired women. Your hair is very beautiful. There are other things I like about you. Your spirit, your courage; the fact that you have a mind of your own. ~Mr. Aristides” ― Agatha Christie

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So if you’re secretly admiring me and the way that you express that is to leave me a bunch of dying due to murder flowers (how I perceive a bouquet of flowers) on my doorstep, I’m going to jump to conclusions which are not ones you may be hoping that I’ll hop on to.

Conclusion jump #1 – This bouquet is obviously not for me.

Conclusion jump #2 – Perhaps they were delivered to the wrong address. Since there is no card or name attached, finding out which one of my neighbours this bouquet was meant to reach will be difficult. Will I make an effort, go the extra mile… to be continued.

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“No sign, so far, of anything sinister—but I live in hope.” ― Agatha Christie

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Conclusion jump #3 – Perhaps this bouquet is for my partner from one of his secret admirers…

Cue side-eye to my partner who looks rather pleased with my conclusion jump #3, slightly perplexed and innocent of all charges brought against him by the side-eye. Uh oh, the side-eye now has evolved into a raised eyebrow over side-eye. It’s not his fault the ladies love him because he has managed to blend manly brawn with sensitivity. That’s just the way that he is naturally.

If this is from one of his admirers, then I admire her taste… or his taste. But whoever it is will have to die. It can’t be helped. At least they’ll die happy. Or something like that.

I’m not jealous or anything like that…

I don’t own my partner, he is not my possession and I love the fact that I can’t control him and don’t want to even try. His free will is my bliss. However I did invest all my savings in buying up the land which surrounds him, for his own protection, of course. To get to him, you have to trespass on my land.

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“A great many men are mad, and no one knows it. They do not know it themselves” ― Agatha Christie

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Conclusion jump #4 – If this bouquet is for me… then…

a) – It’s from someone… who may just be doing a socially acceptable gesture of thanks or something like that, but absentmindedly forgot to fill the card out and other often forgettable formalities of socially acceptable gestures whose burden of duty we often wish we didn’t make ourselves do and so we passive-aggressively sabotage them. They didn’t really want to do it but they did it anyway… and now it’s all gone a bit Pete Tong/wrong.

b) – It’s from someone… who doesn’t know me but thinks they’d like to get to know me better because they’re fantasising about who I am and who I could be for them, and therefore their whole concept of me is a fantasy of theirs, made of desires, projections and reflections… which I will gladly disappoint as such a thing is a part of nature and nurture.

b) –  It’s from someone… who knows me and is deliberately messing with me, thinking that they know me better than they actually do… perhaps.

c) – It’s from someone… who isn’t a someone at all, but a sales pitch which kind of went weird when they forgot to add their logo with sales blurb attached… maybe it’s a sales pitch in parts and the following day a box of chocolates will appear, and so on until the final reveal of the ‘brilliant idea’ of a sales pitch which no human, male or female, could resist.

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“The human face is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask.” ― Agatha Christie

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Conclusion jump #5 – The bouquet of flowers created itself and delivered itself… not sure why, but sometimes flowers do the strangest things.

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agatha christie

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