Cupid Calling.

Fortunately, for everyone involved, Valentine's Day is over for another year. I am, what you would call, fairly neutral about the whole event. In so much as that I'm appreciative of a bunch of flowers being delivered on Valentine's morning as much as the next girl but wouldn’t loose sleep over getting nothing through the door but an estimated bill from British Gas. Which is just as well really, as, despite being in an increasingly long term relationship, darling buds of February where not to be this year. Instead, I had a most fabulous evening getting delightfully pissed on Prosecco with the man in question and a couple of girlfriends. What he lacked in overpriced bouquets he made up for in good fizz and bar snacks, I won’t patronise you, dear readers, with spelling out which Valentine’s gesture I'd prefer. 

Sadly however, February 14th wasn’t quite so breezy for everyone. And, whilst knocking them back last night, I couldn’t help but overhear a sorrowful girl on the table opposite to us lamenting the fact that her boyfriend (of 2 years ... I have excellent hearing) had neglected to recognise the annual day of love. 

I failed to catch the bulk of the conversation, Prosecco winning over eavesdropping, but caught the end of the discussion, which ended in a lengthy description of the argument between the forgotten and Simon, the forgottee. 

War over the roses, no less, and to my mind, a pity. 

A man ‘forgetting’ Valentine’s Day is no less meaningful or significant than a man forgetting a birthday or an anniversary and should be viewed as mildly irritating, fairly typical and not worth loosing sleep over in the slightest. In most cases, it has absolutely no bearings on his feelings towards you but simply demonstrates his talent at being entirely male. 

And if this isn’t comfort enough, take solace in the fact that there are far worse situations to find oneself in. Take, for example, the married gentleman I queued next to whilst in a popular high street stationers on Wednesday. After taking a significant amount of time considering which card to buy, he settled on one, illustrated with a ‘comedy’ squirrel and bearing the words ‘Nuts about you’ on the cover. Now, call me high maintenance, but if the best my husband (As in the man I share my bed/life/inner most thoughts with) could come up with was a cartoon tree rodent it would be more than dinner I would be serving him that night. 

He wasn’t carrying a £2.99 bunch of carnations from Esso, but I dare say they were to follow. 

No, men, God love them, are simple creatures and should be treated as such. Make allowances for their absentmindedness and humour their innocent naivety towards subjects of the heart and the opposite sex. Condemning them for being thoughtless, you will find, will turn out to be utterly pointless and quite a waste of your time.

Failing that you could avoid the whole sorry episode completely and make things easy for yourself by throwing into the conversation how flowers always make you feel like stripping naked and sucking cock for hours, my guess is you’ll have Interflora at your door before breakfast. 

... now what’s it to be, roses or chocolates? whoever said romance was dead.