Perhaps last week’s diatribe against Valentine’s seemed a little vitriolic. Apologies, but I haven’t exhausted my funds of unladylike crankiness yet.
You’ll be reading this on the day of doom itself, when I shall with any luck be performing an anti-romance ritual with Dojos, Dairy Milk and an Agatha Christie omnibus. Of course, I didn’t pop into this life an angry, ranting little person; the Scrooge of romance. But peel back a few years, and the ghosts of Valentine’s Days past can perhaps shed a bit of light.
Firstly, picture Me (as a beautiful young thing please) and my very first boyfriend:
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” (Me)
“I’m seeing someone else.” (Him)
“Goodness gracious!” (or something similar)
“His name’s Arran…”
To be fair to this chap, he did attempt to compensate the following year with a dozen roses delivered to me–at school. Oh yes, we were back together (gay or not gay, he was still the best looking guy around). This doomed affair actually only disintegrated when he finally developed a predilection for lovers with the same name as himself…
Jump into my gap year, and roses bloom again. My then beau had finally forgiven me for that minor incident with his best friend, and had showered me with 22 individually wrapped red roses–my lucky number, you see.
We drank diet coke from champagne glasses and ate takeaway spaghetti–inexplicably romantic at the time. Fast forward twelve months and he was number one on my list of people to have banished to outer space. That’s right: terrorists, murderers, despots and my ex-boyfriend, who’d cheated on me in a jacuzzi orgy. It wasn’t the jacuzzi or the orgy that I particularly minded, but the fact that the primary “other woman” was a big wobbly lump called Glenda.
First year at university, I enthusiastically signed up for RAG blind date. More fool me. My date (and kudos to him for actually turning up) had been entered as a joke. Unfortunately, I didn’t find his mathmo chat particularly hilarious. Finally fast forward to this year, having already endured the admittedly self-inflicted humiliation of blind date yet again (it was dubious as to whether this year’s boy had in fact yet entered puberty), I’m sure you can sympathise with my lack of optimism.
Never mind–when you read this I’ll be contentedly munching away on the chocolates my mother always sends and suspending bitterness, with a choc-full mouth will wish you a very Happy Valentine’s Day!