11 Feb 2013
Being crushed into a swanky restaurant with a pink tablecloth and limited menu is not my idea of romance. I am not a fan of puffy pink cards or teddy bears clutching “I love you” banners; once past the age of sixteen, declarations of affection should be spoken from the heart, not read off a stuffed toy.
Don’t get me wrong, I do like celebrations, if only because they are a great excuse for champagne. But triple the usual price for a half dead rose seems more than a little mercenary. The less said about the proliferation of cheap g-string and peephole bra sets the better. I’m all for a bit of nice underwear, but not when it’s best accessorised with a lamp post and a red light bulb.
This year, I’ve decided to avoid the tat and get back to the true meaning of Valentine’s. I’ve told my husband that he is not to waste his money. It is enough to have a (tasteful) card, and his undying affection. And if he helps cook dinner and pours the bubbly, I will have all I want.
The trouble is, although that all sounds right and proper and truly virtuous, I really don’t think I meant it at all. The brutal fact is, I want presents. I know I shouldn’t but I do. I will become absurdly grumpy at a lack of elaborate bouquets, pretty underwear or sparkling trinkets. Call me grasping, call me materialistic, I don’t care. I want some shiny new stuff.
And now the day in nearly upon us I’m slightly worried he’s taken all that romantic “focus on the true meaning” guff seriously. I mean, he’s a man, so he probably heard what I said, assumed I meant it, and gave it no further thought. Of course I don’t want him to waste money on tacky cards and cheap confectionary, and I know we did say we wouldn’t make a fuss this year, but he does know that women don’t mean that? Doesn’t he?
He is going to turn up with a present hidden behind his back, and a smile that says: “Oh I know we said we wouldn’t but I couldn’t resist spoiling you” – isn’t he?
