It's almost that time of the year again - you know, the day when whatever you buy for your other half is, in some way, not right, or not thoughtful enough, or not as romantic as whatever her friend's other half bought her for Valentine's Day. This is also known traditionally as the day on which people can declare strong feelings for someone, perhaps accompanied with a week's salary worth of flowers, only to discover that the other person just likes them as a friend. Coincidentally, it's also the day on which some people eagerly check their mailbox (the one in the front door or the email variety, these days) in the hope of receiving an unexpected message of love only to find none there, as the rest of the western world swoons in a point-making carpet of hearts and flowers...
As you can see I am the tiniest bit cynical about Valentine's Day. Sure, I'd like an card from a secret admirer as much as the next man, and I may well have sent one or two in my time. I've even been known to do the whole flowers/chocolates/jewellery/lingerie thing. It just seems a bit much sometimes. Maybe I've just been listening to too much Morrissey lately, but it seems to me that, inevitably, the person who likes you is often someone whose feelings you just can't return, and equally that the person you like doesn't return your feelings... of course, you don't find this out until after you shell out on flowers and choc's, until after you've spent all day writing an awful, mawkish piece of cod-poetry in a tacky card that comes in a lurid red envelope, until after you've laid your heart on the line...
What will this Valentine's bring? I don't know, to be honest, other than a hatful of our consumerist cash for the companies that churn out the aforementioned cards, inflatable message balloons, chocolates, flowers, and all the rest. Why I get a card? Will I send one? It's only four days away and I don't even know the answer to that myself just yet. Maybe I'll feel moved to write more here next week on the subject... and if I'm waxing lyrical about romance and the joys of Cupid's arrow you know I'm a happy bunny... but if I'm further slagging the whole exploitative, commercial nature of the event you know that there were no envelopes on my door-mat that morning...
As you can see I am the tiniest bit cynical about Valentine's Day. Sure, I'd like an card from a secret admirer as much as the next man, and I may well have sent one or two in my time. I've even been known to do the whole flowers/chocolates/jewellery/lingerie thing. It just seems a bit much sometimes. Maybe I've just been listening to too much Morrissey lately, but it seems to me that, inevitably, the person who likes you is often someone whose feelings you just can't return, and equally that the person you like doesn't return your feelings... of course, you don't find this out until after you shell out on flowers and choc's, until after you've spent all day writing an awful, mawkish piece of cod-poetry in a tacky card that comes in a lurid red envelope, until after you've laid your heart on the line...
What will this Valentine's bring? I don't know, to be honest, other than a hatful of our consumerist cash for the companies that churn out the aforementioned cards, inflatable message balloons, chocolates, flowers, and all the rest. Why I get a card? Will I send one? It's only four days away and I don't even know the answer to that myself just yet. Maybe I'll feel moved to write more here next week on the subject... and if I'm waxing lyrical about romance and the joys of Cupid's arrow you know I'm a happy bunny... but if I'm further slagging the whole exploitative, commercial nature of the event you know that there were no envelopes on my door-mat that morning...
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