Last one in the bar

I did not realise the spartan state of my bedroom until recently. In it, two narrow beds lie parallel to each other separated by a simple corkwood table. A couple of spare bales of toilet paper lean in a corner like muggers, waiting for the day when I squirm out of the bathroom after using up the last square of tissue. A standing fan stands stoically, keeping perspiration and mosquitoes at bay. On the walls, acres and acres of bare cream paint. Love nest it is not.

I suddenly notice this because after spending one afternoon photographing some orchids for a wedding card with my friend, she tells me that putting a picture of a flower by my bedside would greatly increase the chances of me getting lucky by an unspecified percentage. To me logically, that is about as far-fetched as the backside of Tuas South Avenue 3. But then, at this rate I'm going, I'm about to believe anything.

It is Friday night and while looking around my stash of photos for a pretty floral candidate, I scrolled upon this dismal looking picture that I took a couple of weekends ago at the botanic gardens. I won't be putting this by my bedside because I do not think this is what my friend meant by a woman-attracting type of flower-picture. But still I can't shake off the sensation that somehow it just feels right - for all the wrong reasons.