I actually like Valentine’s Day. Which is rare for a singleton. I love the role of bemused bystander, watching the girls in work expectantly waiting all day for a show of affection from their loved one, or spotting couples after work through restaurant windows sitting in uncomfortable silence with each other as they struggle to think of something to say.
Valentine’s Day this year will be spent like many others; by myself. Thankfully, my mother no longer spends the postage on sending me a card with ill-disguised handwriting. As well meaning as the gesture was, the charade of pretending I received a card from a secret admirer was getting a little tired by the time I hit my thirties.
This year, I’ve decided to mark the occasion by sharing a golden sample of my illustrious dating experiences leading up to the big day itself.
Today’s story is Fishgate.
I was fifteen the first time I received a dozen red roses. I didn’t really fancy R, the boy who sent them, but he was smitten with me and told me so through the language of flowers. The only time I remember having a date with him involved me going round to his very large family house. He grandly showed me every single room, including the well stocked wine cellar during which he made his move. Unfortunately, that evening, he’d had fish for dinner and had neglected to clean his teeth afterwards. Our romance was short-lived.
Tomorrow’s story is Fringe Benefits