Episode Four and I've not given up yet!
Again, you can find this wherever you get your podcasts. I hope you enjoy.
Below is the script for this episode.
🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻🔻
Hello everyone, and welcome back to Fareham Florist Pod — the place where I share tales from life as a florist, and now, a small business owner.
I’m your host, Sarah.
Before we begin, just a gentle note: today’s episode touches on a funeral service. If this topic feels sensitive or uncomfortable for you right now, please feel free to skip this one, and take care of yourself. The flowers — and I — will be right here when you’re ready to come back.
Today, though, I want to share a story that involves fast cars… well, fast-ish cars, high-pressure situations, and a label that we never quite lived down. A nickname that followed us for years, usually delivered with a smirk and a raised eyebrow: “Coffin Chasers.”
You’ve probably heard the term ambulance chaser, right? People who swoop in to profit from someone else’s misfortune. Well, in our little corner of the world, my driver and I somehow became floristry’s version of that.
Now before you picture us in black capes, sunglasses, lurking ominously outside funeral homes… let me explain.
It all began on what should have been an entirely unremarkable day.
Our usual delivery vehicle — the Bedford Rascal — was off for its annual service. And if you’ve never had the pleasure of driving or riding in a Bedford Rascal, let me paint you a picture.
Pleather seats that stuck to you in summer, four gears that felt optional, and absolutely no air conditioning. It was loud, it rattled, and it had the turning circle of a startled shopping trolley.
But oh, it had personality.
With a downhill slope and a generous tailwind, that little van could hit a breathtaking forty-four miles per hour. And honestly? We were proud of her.
For that day, though, we’d been given a courtesy vehicle. And friends… this thing felt luxurious. Twice the size. Proper fabric seats. And — brace yourselves — climate control. Not just in the front, but in the back as well.
It felt like floristry had gone first class.
Suddenly, we could combine three separate delivery rounds into one. No backtracking. No frantic reloading. Just one smooth, efficient route. A logistical dream.
That morning, the shop was unusually calm. Orders were prepped early. The phones were quiet. Four of us stood around with that slightly suspicious feeling that something, somewhere, was about to go wrong.
I asked if I could go out on the delivery as the driver’s assistant. The boss agreed. Honestly, I think they were just happy to have one less person standing around.
So off we went. The plan was flawless. Morning deliveries first. Funeral tributes to the funeral home by one p.m. General afternoon orders afterwards. We mapped the route carefully, avoiding backtracking, congratulating ourselves like absolute professionals.
You know that feeling when you think, "We’ve cracked it. This is how it’s meant to be done?"
Yes. That feeling.
The morning deliveries went beautifully. Everyone was home — which, frankly, is a miracle in itself. No hiding behind wheelie bins, no “leave it with a neighbour who’s definitely not expecting it.”
By half twelve, we pulled into the funeral home car park, smug, relaxed, and ahead of schedule.
That’s when we met the owner’s wife at reception.
She looked up, surprised.
“What are you two doing here at this
time of day?”
“Oh,” we said cheerfully, “just dropping off the flowers for Mrs Bond.”
She paused.
“Which Mrs Bond?”
Now, at this point, alarm bells should have rung. But instead, I smiled confidently and said, “Joan, I believe.”
She didn’t smile back.
There had been a mistake. A very small error with very large consequences. The office assistant had recorded the funeral time incorrectly.
Mrs Bond’s service wasn’t later in the afternoon.
It was at one p.m.
The flowers were expected… now.
At first, I laughed. I genuinely thought she was joking. “You are funny,” I said, because that’s what people say when their brain refuses to process new information.
She did not laugh.
The atmosphere changed instantly. You know that feeling when your stomach drops through the floor and your heart starts trying to escape through your throat?
We had five funeral tributes. We were thirty-five minutes away. And we had less than thirty minutes.
There was no buffer. No contingency. No gentle solution.
This was it.
Now, this is where obscure life skills come into play.
I knew the back roads.
I’d spent many evenings driving them with a former flame — romantic at the time, educational in hindsight. Narrow lanes, sharp turns, villages you’d never find on a map. And suddenly, all that useless knowledge became vital.
I became a full-blown rally navigator.
“Left here. No, trust me. Right after the postbox. Ignore the sat nav.”
The driver didn’t ask questions. She just drove.
We flew — as much as a florist’s van can fly — down lanes barely wide enough for one car. My stomach flipped at every bend. Somewhere between terror and exhilaration, I realised we might actually pull this off.
Then, just two miles from the crematorium, we hit traffic lights.
And there it was.
The hearse.
I swear my heart stopped. The lights felt like they were red for an entire lifetime. As soon as they turned green, we pulled alongside.
I wound down the window and shouted — far louder than was
appropriate
“We have the flowers for the lady you’re
transporting!”
Bless that driver. No panic. No confusion. Just calm professionalism.
We pulled into a quiet layby around the corner. Loaded the tributes into the hearse. Adjusted ribbons. Straightened cards. Five minutes later, everything was in place.
The service went ahead.
The family never knew.
It felt like divine intervention. Someone, somewhere, was definitely on our side that day.
We never lived it down.
Every time we delivered to that funeral home, someone would mention it. A smile. A comment.
“Here come the coffin chasers.”
And you know what? We earned it.
But beyond the humour, that day stuck with me. Floristry is often seen as gentle. Quiet. Pretty. And yes — it can be all those things.
But behind the scenes? It’s logistics. Pressure. Responsibility. People’s most important moments, balanced on stems and timing and trust.
That nickname became a reminder.
Double-check everything.
Triple-check funeral times.
And always know your back roads.
If someone ever calls you a coffin chaser? Take it with pride. Just make sure you’re delivering flowers — not racing ambulances.
So that’s the story of how my driver and I became floristry’s very own coffin chasers — racing the clock, navigating impossible roads, and arriving just in time.
Thank you for listening to Fareham Florist Pod. Remember, in the world of floristry, it’s not just about flowers. It’s about quick thinking, steady nerves, and occasionally, a bit of divine luck.
Until next time — keep your calendars checked, your flowers fresh, and your sense of humour intact.
Postnote... I have changed the name of the deceased in this episode. The ladies name was not Mrs Bond; I have used this name to protect her identity.
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Are you a florist with your own stories, your own experiences that you would like me to share for you? If you are, I would love to hear from you. You can reach me via email. The address is farehamfloristpod@duck.com or drop me a WhatsApp on 073 671 87685. Let me know if you would like me to keep you anonymous. If you would like me to give your business a mention, whether you run a florist, butcher, baker, or even a candlestick maker, I'm more than happy to do so providing your business is registered and trading legally. As a thank you for putting your details out there and hopefully generating some new business for you, it would be appreciated if you would be kind enough to make a donation to one of our nominated charities. These can be found on the webpage www.Fareham Florist Pod.co.uk.
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