[Flowers. Two days late. An excuse in time saves nine.]
So I sped round in the dodgems thinking of how miserable Jane would be without me, rode on the dinky train wondering whether she'd ever speak to me again, listened to children's laughter as the wind rose and the rain blew in from the west, where Jane lives in America, far from my heavy heart, and ate a chocolate brownie while hoping against hope that she wouldn't cut me out of her will. By the time I got home, I felt that my friendship with her was already beyond repair, and so the whole thing languished.
[further away from the flowers]
Better late then never, they say, and of course that's not true; it's one of those cheerful remarks to which there's no response. You just mutter something and back slowly away, wondering whether the hip-flask is in the pocket of the other coat, the more flattering one.