The thing about Valentine’s Day in our household is that I kind of think it should really be all about me. Well, it’s my Birthday eve isn’t it. When I was a boarder at prep school, sent there at the tender age of either 6 or 7 depending upon how much I want to wind my mother up recounting to her the trauma of being sent from the lush greenness of Ghana to a cold, damp castle in Scotland, the fact that my birthday was on the 15th February meant, for several days ahead of the event, I was watched in awe by the other boys as I nonchalantly collected a handful of cards from the pigeon holes when the mail arrived after breakfast. The sad reality is, just between you and me, I don’t think I received a single Valentines Card at Clifton Hall and perhaps just a couple in the following five years at my next school where of course I at least tried to pull the same stunt. So anyway, it’s not that I’m mentally scarred or anything like that, but actually I really hate Valentines Day. It comes only a smidgeon behind Halloween, when all those sugar frenzied kids come hammering on your front door, as my worst day of the year. You’ll have seen them today. People with smug faces wandering about carrying extortionately priced roses and chocolate. Restaurants full of lovey dovey couples. But perhaps you missed the notice board at Tottenham Hale tube station this morning; instead of proclaiming that engineering works had overrun on the Victoria Line, it had the words of the song “Love is All Around” by Wet Wet Wet written on it. Pass the sick bowl! The trouble is I have four girls at home at the moment and they don’t quite share my view, but they can hardly complain this year. In a bit of a panic last night I found a large pink Post-it pad. Took four sheets off it. Still glued together I was able to cut them in one go into something approximating a heart shape and then stuck them strategically around the house with a big question mark on each. Sorted.
No comments:
Post a Comment