Aw, Happy Valentine’s Day lovers. May Eros bestow upon you a large box of foil-wrapped chocolates, a greetings card the size of a broadsheet newspaper, and a bottle of Durex Play 2 in 1 with essence of Ylang Ylang. Here’s hoping your day of romance will culminate in a sumptuous meal involving a sirloin steak garnished with a little heart-shaped herby butter pat, chocolate covered out-of-season-strawberries, and a bottle of pink fizz that you may or may not choose to sup from each other's belly buttons.
Oh, fine - call me cynical. It’s just that, after more than a decade of marriage, we’ve done the sensible thing this year and made a mutual pact not to ‘do’ Valentine’s. No cards. No flowers. No novelty gifts. And no massage oil.
It was Mr P who mooted the possibility and – after a momentary initial surge of outrage, panic, and disappointment - I nodded agreement. He’s right, you know. I don’t need a crappy card or a bunch of blooms that will be wilting by Wednesday to prove the fella loves me: I know it in my heart. And how liberating it is, standing firm against the mighty evil forces of commercialism! Not to mention the simple fact that something else has just been knocked off my to-do list.
Besides….that massage oil stains the sheets something chronic.
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