Culch Valentine’s: The real deal

I went out with one of those guys that didn’t do Valentine’s for many years. Every year, as the shops turned red and filled with hearts and teddies I’d wax bullshit to my friends about how he loved me every day and didn’t need to prove it with some fluffy tacky show of affection. Meanwhile I kept one eye on the window all day long waiting for the Interflora van to show up. It never came. Eventually, I copped on and left the country and him behind. He didn’t follow nor did that van ever arrive with flowers or any message begging me to come home.

Someone did keep in touch while I was away though, albeit sporadically. I’d get the odd two or three line email with an obscure eighties song reference subject line from my friend George. George who had accompanied me to the airport when I left. George who had begged me not to go. He occasionally called too with nothing much to say and a complete disregard for time differences or international telephone rates. When I came home after three years we hooked up and all was well for a while. Then the Irish winter got to me, the ex started making the odd confusing appearance and George got a very noisy dose of food poisoning and I heartlessly disappeared into my bedroom for a month and told everyone to leave me alone.

Then on 11th February 2004 this arrived in my inbox.
Subject: fizzy wizzy silly billy dilly dally silly sally willy nilly

How could I refuse? My first ever official Valentine’s date. We went for a meal and ate orgasmic chicken. We drank cheap champagne. He bought me a rose from a roving flower seller. The whole evening was the epitome of a cheesy Valentine’s date complete with the awkwardness and nervousness of a first. It made me laugh - for the first time in weeks. The clouds lifted and suddenly I was sure. So, using an overused cliche because of the day that’s in it: Readers, I married him.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my Love.