One sunny afternoon, Bob burst into her parlour, eyes shining brighter than ever. “Beatrice, my love!” he exclaimed, “I have found it! The perfect reason to finally set a date! We must wait for the blooming of the legendary Midnight Orchid of Borneo. It only flowers once a century, and it is a symbol of eternal love!”

Beatrice fixed him with a gaze that could melt glaciers. “Oh, Bob,” she said softly, “You're going all the way to Borneo this time, aren't you? Well, it is good you go. While you are away, I will marry your brother, Ronald. He doesn't have such a vivid imagination!”

And so, Bob, the eternal fiancé, found himself the best man at a wedding he should have been the groom at, and the Midnight Orchid of Borneo bloomed only to be forgotten.

Benjamin, bless his cotton socks and hopelessly romantic heart, had fallen for Rose like a skyscraper tumbling in a slow-motion movie. Rose, the girl next door, was a vision – a symphony of sunshine and smiles, housed in a floral sundress. Benjamin, on the other hand, was more of a muted trombone solo, usually clad in a slightly-too-tight waistcoat and a perpetual state of nervous perspiration.

His love, however, was as loud as a brass band at a picnic. And, being a man of action, or rather, a man of well-intentioned, slightly misguided action, he decided to woo her the old-fashioned way: with roses. Every blessed morning, as dawn painted the sky in hues of apricot and rose (irony, you magnificent beast!), Benjamin would tiptoe from his flat, a freshly cut rose clutched in his trembling hand. He'd then deposit it, with the stealth of a squirrel burying a particularly prized acorn, upon Rose's balcony.

It was a labour of love, a ritual as predictable as the sunrise. He imagined Rose, awakening to the fragrant bloom, a smile gracing her lips, thinking of her secret admirer. He envisioned their grand meeting, a scene orchestrated by fate and fragrant petals. The reality, however, was as different as a banjo is from a Stradivarius.

Unbeknownst to our lovesick Benjamin, Rose was allergic to roses. Terribly, spectacularly, violently allergic. Each morning, after Benjamin's stealthy floral delivery, Rose would wake up, not to a sweet-smelling serenade, but to a sneezing fit that could rival a small earthquake. Her eyes would puff up like over-inflated balloons, and her nose would run like a leaky faucet. She suspected a well-meaning but clueless Cupid was at work, but had no idea who was behind the floral attacks.

One crisp autumn morning, Benjamin, peering through his binoculars (disguised as “birdwatching equipment”), saw Rose emerge onto her balcony. This was it, the moment! She picked up the rose, her face scrunched up in a way that Benjamin interpreted as pure, unadulterated delight.

“Curse this infernal pollen!” she shouted, before launching into a sneezing volley, loud enough to wake the dead.

Benjamin, finally understanding the fragrant folly of his ways, went back to his waistcoat, a little bit wiser, and a lot more itchy. After all, as fate often reminds us, even the most beautiful blossoms can carry hidden thorns. And sometimes, the grandest gestures are best kept to oneself, unless one wishes to induce a sneezing symphony of epic proportions.

Charles, a man whose morals were as elastic as an old rubber band – stretched thin and easily snapped – fancied himself a bit of a Robin Hood, minus the archery skills and the noble intentions. One night, under a moon that looked suspiciously like a peeled orange, he liberated a gold box from the mansion of Lord Featherbottom, a man whose wealth was as vast and unsettling as the Gobi Desert. “Reparations,” Charles muttered, feeling quite heroic despite the clammy sweat on his palms.