Me and the missus don’t usually do Valentine’s Day.
I would like to say it’s because we refuse to have the terms of our romance dictated to us by Hallmark. But that would be a lie.
I’d also like to say it’s because (as my mate Spindle says to his lovely-but-sometimes beleaguered wife) ‘Every day with me is Valentine’s Day!’ But this would also be lie – although I did once say that sentence to the missus and I got a look that said something along the lines of ‘Shut up idiot. I don’t think you’re funny. The boy doesn’t think you’re funny. In fact nobody thinks you’re funny. Except you. And that’s just plain sad!’
It is actually because we usually can’t be arsed although this year I made a bit of an effort when I scooted to the Konditor and Cook shop (the best bakery in London) and bought her sausage rolls. The missus loves savoury stuff and, remarkably, she was genuinely touched by this offering.
St Valentine’s Day did however become less romance and more massacre-orientated when we got home and the boy revealed his new hobby when he announced ‘I have a death list!’
Death lists, of course, have provided a bulwark to my sanity for a long time and visions of George Bush and many others slowly being tortured have provided a soothing balm to my sometimes troubled soul.
Prominent on the boy’s list are quack nutrionist Gillian McKeith, charity-addict Bono and the people from The Singing Kettle theatre show, who refused to pick him to go on stage when he was four. This rejection has apparently put him off theatricals for life.
My parental pride swells. My work here is done…
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