’That’s a trick question. I’m a fecking writer, give me a break’

IT’S 2am, the witching hour, and I’m in London, standing in my son’s kitchen, holding a coffin-sized box of hopes and dreams; inside it are flowers which I am now going to make up into four “small, affordable, classy bouquets”.

A trial run, so to speak, for July 6, when my son launches his daily flower-delivery business online.

Flower selection, which took place just now in Spitalfields Market, was fraught with major difficulties, such as for example, not being able to find it.

And minor logistical difficulties, such as running across a dual-carriageway in the dark holding a cardboard coffin on my head: but we’re here now, safe and sound, and I am ready to give my son a tutorial in flower arranging.

“Four bouquets by 9am, let’s get cracking,” he says.

“How do you propose to do this every day while holding down a full-time job, love?” I say.

“Boomers! Too easy,” he says.

2.25am.

My son points at a small coffee table with beer cans on. I sit on lino and begin cutting through Aconite stems with a pair of scissors from the 14th century: it is not too easy.

“I’m just wondering,” I say, by way of keeping my eyes open, “whether your choice of enterprise might have its roots in all the compulsory nature walks and wildflower species-identification I forced you to enjoy until you were big enough to stop me.

“I’m sure there’s some teeny weeny vestigial appreciation of flowers buried deep down inside you. So deep even you don’t know it’s there. I mean, you used to be able to identify all the common wildflowers- Pignut and…” I say.

“What the hell is Pignut?”

“Conopodium Majus, white, comes into flower around the same time as bluebells?”

“Nah,” he says looking blank, “nothing to do with Pignut, I just spotted a gap in the market.”

2.40am.

“Now,” I say, it might help if you “think of a bouquet as a film. In a film, you have major characters, minor characters and extras. So this is what? A major or minor character?” I say, pointing at a large blue stem of smoky blue aconite.

“Major?” he says.

“Yes!” I say, “I told you something must have rubbed off.”

“Boomers!” he says, “too easy.”

I pick up a stem of small, single white flowers, “and this chrysanthemum?”

“Minors.”

“Almost...” I say.

“Extras.”

“Yes,” I say, “always lowly extras.”

“Now what about these?” I say, indicating three Spider chrysanthemums. Majors, minors or extras?”

“Extras,” he says decisively.

“No.”

“But it’s a chrysanthemum, you said chrysanthemums were always lowly extras,” he says.

“Same in name only, these are spiky, and funny. They are basically huge pink sea-urchins. Unforgettable, so they are definitely majors,” I say.

“That’s a trick question,” he says, “I’m a fecking civil engineer, Mum, give me a break.”

3.40am.

We are working on our bouquets; my son is sawing stems over in the corner of the room with a kitchen knife. I am at my work-station with 14th century scissors.

4.10am.

“Now this, is what you’re aiming for. Pink Celosia, small vanilla roses and cream night-scented stock ... some pretty foliage-variegated works because it picks out the cream in the roses — nice and loose. Romantic even,” I say, handing him my finished bouquet.

He puts down his saw and crosses the room. I can’t wait for him to say, “Boomers! Too easy!” But instead he says, “never mind romantic, Mum, what about the cost?”

“Cost?” I say.

“Yes, cost you’re supposed to calculate the cost as you go along, remember,” he says,

“Calculate?” You’re the one with a masters in entrepreneurship, not me,” I say.

“Yes, calculate. I’m sure there must be some teeny weeny vestigial knowledge of basic arithmetic buried deep down inside you,” he says.

“Maximum spend per bouquet,” he explains, “is seven pounds and you’ve got one... two... three... four... five Celosithings in there and they come in at two quid a stem so those, with the stocks at one pound a stem and the rose things at three makes...?”

“That’s a trick question. I’m a fecking writer, give me a break,” I say.

He returns to his corner and resumes sawing.

4.20am

“Now this is what you’re aiming for. Seven quid. On the nose,” he says, presenting me with his bouquet,

“Where are the majors? And are you colourblind?” I say.

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