In the wee hours of last night, I had an interview with the owner of a flower shop. Guess that’s a big interest of mine!

I walked into the store, dreaming of colours, of arranging them artfully. Dreaming of being kind to every single customer. Sharing the joy of a young man who wants to wow his girl.

Her eyes bore into me. “Sit down” was an order.

I remember fragments. She snarled. She spat. She made me wrong, over and over.

It was time for me to demo my flower arranging skills … but I’d never done it.

“Not that table! What’s wrong with you? Over there!”

What the fudge is wrong with this woman? I thought. And then …

“Who do you think you are, yelling at me like this? I’m not your servant! Why would I want to work here, in this stinking, toxic pool? I’m got far better places to be.”

“I will not let you infect me with your poison. Find someone else to humiliate.”

“Do you treat your husband this way? Your kids? Is your voice at home venomous like this? Does the word ‘conversation’ mean anything to you?”

“Goodbye.” (And the door slams)

***

O my God! Who was that? > It was you, dear Bruce. Who else could it possibly be?

This wasn’t two weeks ago, when I played George, the man who spat fury at his wife Martha in the reading of the play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? This wasn’t a role. This was me. Some part of me.

So … I ain’t takin’ no shit! I stand up for myself. I refuse to be drawn into the mire.

So there