My Bloody Valentine’s Day

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Ah, St. Valentine’s Day! The religious festival that celebrates drinking warm fizzy wine, rash-inducing cuddly toys and overpriced set menus. £25 for three bits of Tapas? Fuck off.

Now, Valentine’s Day has always been a bit of a mixed bag for me. It has ranged from being absolutely desperate to receive a card, something, ANYTHING to show that I was considered attractive to somebody else (WHYDOESNOBODYLOVEMENOPARENTSYOUDON’TCOUNT!!), to sneering at it because I was far too cool to lower myself to be involved in this organized tack (I still never received anything, but it now it didn’t matter because I was far too cool *cough*).

When my husband and I first got together we thought we were so young and hip. Valentine’s Day? Hahaha! Please! Oh, how ironic and casual we were. We didn’t care, because it didn’t apply to us. We didn’t need a prescribed day to show love. We were in love ALL THE TIME. We went to the cinema to see ‘Hot Fuzz’ and bought each other ‘The Wicker Man’ sound track.

I know. Totally insufferable.

Obviously, things have changed somewhat. We can’t even be witheringly hip any more. It’s gone from purposefully ignoring it / doing something ironic, to sort of remembering to get a card from the garage because we happen to be in there buying 2 litres of milk anyway.

Valentine’s Day now mainly involves picking up assorted crap off the floor, wiping bums, and shouting ‘GET DOWN FROM THERE’.

I never thought I’d say this, but to be brutally honest, I’d bloody give anything to be whisked away to an over-priced restaurant, drinking tepid prosecco, looking in to the eyes of my other half, surrounded by dead-eyed couples doing EXACTLY THE SAME THING. It beats picking stir-fry up from the floor and trying to coax a 4 year old out of the bath using the promise of being able to watch Peppa Pig.

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