Pete's Expert Summary
My Human, in their infinite and baffling wisdom, has acquired a box of plastic bits from a company called LEGO. The purpose, apparently, is not to create a spaceship or a castle, but to assemble… flowers. Scentless, lifeless, plastic flowers. The primary appeal, from my superior vantage point, is the long, focused silence this "mindful building" will grant me, allowing for uninterrupted napping. The multitude of small, hard pieces also presents a tantalizing opportunity for batting them into the dark abyss under the sofa. However, the final product—a rigid, dust-collecting effigy of a lotus—is an insult to genuine flora and will likely be nothing more than a static, un-chewable waste of space in a vase, unworthy of my direct attention unless it looks particularly tippable.
Key Features
- Buildable LEGO bouquet – Create a flower display to adorn any room with the LEGO Lotus Flowers (40647) set, designed for fans of aesthetic room décor and mindful LEGO building
- Combine with other sets – These artificial flowers for decoration can be combined with other LEGO flower building toys for girls and boys
- Say it with flowers – A fun family gift idea for a birthday, holiday or any other day
- Beautiful colors - Includes 2 Lotus flowers in bloom and a flower head bud in delicate shades of pink and white, with long green stems
- Suitable for vase display – Each lotus flower, with stem, measures over 12 in. (30 cm) high
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The clicking began after dinner. It's a sound I've come to associate with my Human entering a state of focused hibernation, their eyes glazed over, their hands occupied with a task that requires no input from me. Excellent. I settled onto the velvet armchair, a sleek gray and white emperor surveying my domain, and watched the proceedings with disdain. The box depicted lotuses, but what spilled onto the table was a sterile pile of pink, white, and green geometry. It was a deconstruction, an autopsy of a flower performed by a machine. A quiet curse, a sigh of frustration. I opened one eye. The Human was on their hands and knees, patting the floor like a confused bear. My gaze drifted downwards. There, shimmering faintly in the lamplight near my chair's leg, was a small, curved piece of pink plastic. I recognized its shape from the instruction booklet—a crucial component of an unfurling petal. Without it, their precious flower would be forever imperfect. A delightful thought. The Human's project, their little slice of manufactured joy, was now entirely at my mercy. I let them search for a full five minutes, a period during which I groomed my left shoulder with theatrical indifference. The power was intoxicating. I was the silent arbiter of this creation myth. I held the key to botanical completion in the space beneath my throne. When their pathetic searching had reached a crescendo of despair, I decided my point had been made. I stretched, languidly, and with a flick of my paw, sent the pink piece skittering out from the shadows and into a patch of light. The Human gasped in relief, snatching it up and praising the fickle gods of chance. They had no idea it was an act of calculated clemency. Later, when the two finished flowers and the single bud stood tall in their glass prison, I leaped onto the table for a final inspection. The stems were long and stiff, the petals a mockery of delicate tissue. It was not a toy. It was not even a good flower. But as I looked at the one perfect petal I had personally released back into the world, I gave a slow blink of approval. It was not worthy of my play, but as a monument to my own quiet, absolute authority, it would suffice.
