Jack
'I need to order some, er, flowers,' I say. I've been loitering in the florist's for the last few minutes, waiting for everyone else to leave. It's fully Christmassed up in here already, decked out with ribbons and holly wreaths, and one whole wall of shelves is covered with those huge red plants that everyone sticks on the fireplace and battles to keep alive until New Year.
The forty-something florist is bundled into a puffa jacket, her fingers red and chapped. It's cold enough in here to see my breath.
'Any idea what kind you want?' she asks, still scribbling on the previous customer's order slip.
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2012: 12 November
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