We wanted to send some flowers yesterday. Once upon a time, we would ring Pam whom we've known since school. We knew she would be sitting in her little shop having received her delivery of fresh flowers from the market. We'd ask her what flowers looked especially nice, how she was, was her Mum getting over the hot summer and ask to have the bunch delivered that afternoon.
Pam's gone now so we go the internet to find a florist near to where we want them sent. Sarah's Flowers sounds alright so we ring them up and place the order. Sarah seems a little off-hand but she's probably busy.
When it hasn't arrived the next day, we try contacting Sarah on the web but "Sarah's Flowers' takes us to Temu. What's going on? Another try throws up a telephone number and the disembodied voice tells us that the flowers have left the warehouse. Warehouse? The image of 'Sarah' sitting on a high stool in the back of her little shop in a Bulli back-street slowly dissipates.
Like everything else, 'floristry' has become just another mass-produced industry with the bouquets being churned out by hordes of migrant workers in centralised factories. There's no 'Sarah' just as there's no longer a 'Pam'. Still, I gather the flowers were nice, fresh and smelled pretty.
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