A mother swoops into the florist to get the gift out of the way.

Her eyes scan the orchids, placing price above petals. She weighs up size while weighing down the curiosity of her children, whose eyes are wonderfully fixed on the terrariums.

I can see them wondering what those cacti feel like – if it’ll hurt to give them a pat; if they’ll be brave enough to muster the pain in front of their sibling. Soon enough, thought evolves into action and a hand lowers into the bowl before being swatted out by the mother, who continues to round up the kids and point them in the direction of the counter.

She instructs me to box the orchid as she continues along her trajectory over to the $7 gift cards – no, she thinks, before noticing the $4 gift card rack and hurriedly scanning these for something suitable. She juggles cash, keys and the card, scribbles an empty message and pays before abruptly sweeping out of the store with kids in tow, who clumsily navigate their way out of the forest.