Still ill. Which is seriously boring, as Sherlock has pointed out. Danger is nursing me back to health though. Which largely consists of making me drink odd things, refusing to let me do anything and forming a lovely warm human pillow. Which does make me a feel a lot better.
Sadly he's actually employed as a nanny, so I have to share him.
If I had a time machine the ONE piece of advice I'd go back and give myself would be to never start smoking. It's only ever been a spectacularly bad idea.
I noticed the other day that one of you admitted finding John's blog whilst surfing for porn. HAH, I knew it. (EDIT: It was Azure. "And, yes, John, I totally was looking for porn when I found this. But aren't you glad that so many awesome people ended up here even if we found it while looking for filth?".) I rest my case.
And now, because I've been incarcerated all day....
Greg looked out from the back room, through the cheap plastic strands which attempted to hide it from the main shop. He grinned at the sight of John's arse, perfectly framed by the doorway, jeans snug over his bum as he leant on the counter, flicking through a huge book on flower arranging Greg had given him to study.
"John, can you get in here and tie me up?" he called, smiling.
John twisted to look at him, shaking his head, but smiling too. Greg nodded down to where he was holding a large bunch of stems together, and then to the ribbon next to them on the table.
"One day..." John said, but then shook his head.
Greg raised an eyebrow and smiled as innocently as he could.
Once the bunch was secured Greg made John name all of the flowers in it and the shape of the arrangement, then help with the cellophane and more ribbons.
John had seemed to settle in well - he got on with the customers, and seemed amazingly empathic, listening to their stories and helping suggest appropriate flowers and messages to go with them. He applied himself well to learning all the names, although still often had to call upon Greg for help with the more obscure ones.
Greg set about making up the next order, walking around the shop and plucking the blooms out of their buckets.
"Sweet Pea?" John said, from behind the counter.
"Yes, Cupcake?" Greg answered.
He was pretty sure John would strain something if he rolled his eyes any harder.
"Do you ever stop? I mean, really, do you ever just stop and take something seriously?"
Greg paused for a moment. Then shrugged. "Only the serious things. No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Don't want you having me up on a sexual harassment case when you've only just started working here."
John snorted. "Sexual harassment? Chance would be a fine thing."
And the moment was broken as an elderly woman stomped into the shop, glancing over them both and then looking directly at John, behind the counter.
"I need something appropriate for my Fifi," she announced, very loudly.
John tore his gaze away from Greg and visibly gathered himself, smiled a welcoming smile, and nodded. "Of course. Fifi, you say? And what's the occasion?"
The woman fixed him with a stern look. "The occasion, young man, is her death! She did so love Daffodils. I think perhaps some daffs? Something appropriate, though. Not too cheerful, obviously."
Greg smiled widely and headed out to the back room as fast as he could. As he passed John he said in a low voice. "Dog. Loved pissing on daffs. Most appropriate thing is my shovel out back."
John bit his cheek to keep from smiling.
"I see, madam," he managed, straight faced. "Some slightly miserable daffodils. I'll see what we can do."
He turned, grabbing Greg's arm as he attempted to escape. "and I'll see what I can do about you later."