The boy is abandoning me again this week for the exotic delights of Slough. Since he started his impressive new job he has been combining working from home with quite a hefty slice of travelling - in January we spent about 10 days together because he was back and forth to Slough, Hamburg and narrowly avoided Sweden.
February will see him in Slough this week, Devon next week and the week after we are both travelling together to the Lake District.
I was chatting to a friend about our little holiday to the Lakes with his mother, sister and sister's fiancee and she was horrified to realise that it was "on Valentine's week".
First of all it's a day, not a week. Second of all what does it matter if we don't spend Valentines Day on our own together?
It's not that I'm anti-romance, quite the contrary in fact, it's just that I am not a fan of contrived or enforced sentiment. Valentine's Day gives people an excuse to be romantic, which is lovely of course, but why do people need an excuse?? Why do you need an excuse to reinforce that you love someone? Why do we have one day a year dedicated to expressing how we feel just because everyone else does and we feel a need to conform or even worse compete?
Oh the one-upmanship! The flowers delivered to the office, the counting of cards, the proposals in Paris, the bitterness of being exluded or overlooked. It's all such a cliche. Around the time of Valentine's Day everything is painted red and pink and I am faced with 50% of my friends being nauseating and 50% of my friends being suicidal.
Here's a thought... how about I tell The Boy I love him every day, I show him I love him every day, I appreciate him every day and I am completely secure in my relationship. Valentine's Day is not a day for romantic people, it's a day for insecure people.
Don't take it all so seriously.
Do you know what I find romantic? That despite my being pretty and popular at school, despite always getting valentine's day cards or the single roses that our school offered to deliver for us my mother sent my brother and I an anonymous Valentine every year.
Just in case. Now that's sweet.
What's not particularly sweet is the random disgusting conversations that The Boy and I have had this weekend.
On Friday I came home early with ladypains after our night out and went to sleep with a full face of makeup and a trashy book wedged under my neck. The Boy came home in the early hours of the morning and puked himself stupid.
On Saturday we went for a late lunch at Brown's after visiting my mother and drooling over the Dream House™. Over flatbread with hummus and stilton dips, goat's cheese and apricot crostini, creamed spinach, honey roast parsnips, shepherd's pie, curly kale and roast pumpkin (c'est tres random n'est-ce pas?) and a pot of Earl Gay we for some reason began discussing The Boy's vomit from the night before. As you do.
He was particularly fascinated by managing to produce an entire prawn. I did question whether he chewed his food at all but he was resolute that he had. No these were clearly terminator prawns which had reformed in his stomach and gone on a rampage. Also, please note it was not the vast quantity of alcohol which made him sick - the terminator prawns were trying to crawl out of his oesophagus. I then admitted to having a nasty habit of inserting prawns up his rectum whilst he slept, this is what makes him sick so often when he drinks. Oh the poor people at the next table.
On Sunday, over tea and scones to belatedly celebrate our friend's birthday (blimey this weekend has been a carbfest and a half!) we somehow ended up discussing the 25 most disturbing sex toys on a website which The Boy had happened upon. He thoughtfully saved it in the favourites on my swanky phone so that if I ever need to show someone a Baby Jesus Buttplug it's there at the touch of a button. Thank you darling.
What would I do without him?
Well this evening for example I plan to go home, get into my pyjamas and watch old musicals in bed with a Lush facepack smothered on my face. I am indeed the future of rock and roll. Perhaps I will even push the boat out and go to the extreme of pumicing my feet or plucking my eyebrows. Ooooooh! The possibilities are endless.
Last night, once over our weekend of carb-indulgence and alcohol-excess we went round to his best friend's penthouse to cuddle up on a large purple beanbag, watch Cannibal The musical, drink champagne and eat pizza, chips and Butterkist toffee popcorn. Despite only having 3 flutes of fizzypops I have an acidy head this morning. I told you champagne should be avoided. Tea, tea is where it's at!
Peace out people.
Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.
Title: Modern Love by David Bowie