I visit one of the only two independent local florists in town.
Because of Mother's Day last Sunday I find that there are a glut of mini-rose bushes, pretty primulas, budding daffs and dwarf hyacinths.
But only one mini-rose with red buds.
I'm not as green-fingered as I'd like to be yet I do know that this bush with its dying buds had plenty of new shoots, was fat with newly sprouting stems covered in not quite opened leaves and its roots were bursting out of the pot. Perfect for planting on.
And did I say it was the only rose with red buds? And all for £2.99!
So I take it the counter to buy.
There is this sweet-looking elderly lady - hair like cotton wool, face like cream cake - a bit shakey, a bit tremulous - wearing a pink floral apron standing by the cash till.
She is weilding a huge pair of scissors.
She takes my rose bush and we start chatting. She's telling me how to plant the bush, what to feed it etc etc.
In the meantime I watch horrified as she snips, snips, snips away at the rose bush.
Snip, snip, snip.
By the time she is done talking my previously bushy rose-bush is reduced to a stump.
"Here," she says wrapping the pot triumphantly in plastic and holding it out to me, "all ready for potting up!"
She must have seen my shock because she then hesitates and adds, "Let's call it 90p, shall we?"