(You were expecting more underwear tales, weren't you? Naughty reader...)

There are a couple of reasons I hate roses. This is the earliest one I can remember. No, nothing to do with bees or allergies or thorns. It's just that, for me, roses have become synonymous with betrayal.

And here is why...

Believe it or not, I was a debutante.

Why on earth was I a debutante?

I tend to be a 'what the hell' kinda girl. It meant I got to frock up, learn some neat dance steps and I didn't have anything on that night. So what the hell.

It took months of planning. Dance lessons, dress fittings, all sorts of nonsense. Some of it was a hassle (and my partner was a complete twonk), but mostly it was a laugh. And a bit of a chance for this outer suburban, not born with a silver spoon in her mouth girl to show up the 'Brighton Set'--the snobs at my school.

I decided that, since this was a significant night, I would invite my father along. I had not seen him since I was four, but I had been writing to him regularly. He accepted happily and said he'd be there with bells on.

I was thrilled.

The night arrived. Mum and I adjourned to a hotel nearer the venue to prepare while my step-father and my brother suited up at home.

I was nervous as hell. Apart from stage fright, this would be the first time I'd have seen my dad in nearly 12 years. I wanted to make a good impression. Had I not been wearing elbow length white gloves, I would have gnawed my nails to the bone.

I kept peeking out of the room they kept us girls in before we were to be presented (how much like a wedding is this?) No sign of my dad. I began to panic. He wasn't at my family's table. He hadn't shown...

I don't cry easily. And I wasn't going to cry over this. Dammit, I was going to walk out onto that dancefloor and dazzle the room, whether he was there or not.

Inside, I was dying.

I was presented. I managed a full curtsey in a white duchess satin sheath dress (and my partner copped a good look right down the front of my dress as I did so). I waltzed, I foxtrotted, I tangoed and I rock and rolled.

I was a star.

He wasn't there.

Bet you're thinking, "The rotten sod piked on her and just sent her roses..."

Close, but no cigar.

I arrived home. A dozen, boxed, long stemmed red roses awaited me. With a card. Explaining that my father had been hit by a car while crossing the road and was in hospital but he hoped my night was wonderful and that he was thinking of me.

They had arrived while my step-father was home.

The card had been opened.

I asked him why it had not occurred to him to mention that the flowers had arrived.

Apparently, it wasn't his business to be running around telling me things like that.

Sure. Fine. Whatever.

If other betrayals had not occurred later in my life involving roses (and only by the dozen, I might add), then I would have entitled this Why I Hate My Step-Father. But they have become somewhat symbolic for me.

Blue irises are more than welcome, though.