An old flatmate of mine called Dublin Pat – to distinguish him from Belfast Pat – was walking home after an all-night session of drink, drugs and best-not-asks. A florist was opening the shutters of her shop and Pat walked in.
“Would you have a rose?” says Pat
“Certainly,” says the florist.
“And a bit of greenery to go with it?” asks Pat
“Yes, of course, ” says she
“And something to put it in?” says Pat
“I have a lovely small vase here,” says she.
Pat asks the price and pays it. Then he leaves the vase with the single rose on the counter and walks out of the shop.
“That’s for all of us,” says Pat .
And they say romance is dead.