No, the postman didn't herniate himself this morning on my behalf. But I wasn't disappointed, because I had no expectation. And before you think this will be a sour grapes post, let me tell you I love Valentine's Day. I think it breaks up the most soulless months on the calendar, particularly when the news is permanently depressing. I think it's does us good to stop for a moment of lighthearted romance.
In the UK, we lag behind the States, mainly limiting our feeling-sharing to partners, while I understand our friends across the pond really know how to spread the love, with cards to (and from) teachers, pets and mother-in-laws being common place. It's just a bit of fun and niceness. And yet the argument we hear constantly from (mainly) men, all gruff voiced and puffed chest is "I don't need one day to show how I feel" and I always wonder how often these guys send hearts and flowers to their girls the rest of the year. Then we have the over commercialised argument. Yep, it is. But you don't have to buy into it. Because it's absolutely not about the heartsy stuff - all those bug-eyed teddies, purlease - nor is it about spending a shed-load in Tiffany. Real romance should be symbolic not bank-breaking. Original. A gesture goes a long way: Fold a piece of paper in half and write something heartfelt on it. Or saucy. Whatever floats your particular vessel. And personally, I would rather have a bunch of daffs from Tesco than a bouquet of red roses (snore). I suppose that makes me a cheap date.
Then I bit his head off for forgetting my card.