"So are you doing anything special for Valentines Day?" she asked as she worked the shampoo into my hair. "No" I replied. It seemed that this was an unsatisfactory response. It was a total conversation stopper as she didn't utter another word to me for the whole of the "relaxing scalp massage".
Had I better do something? Make the effort?
I met my friend in town and we headed straight for the 'beauty department'. We were giggling away like teenagers, trying to draw straight edges with liquid liners and pouting into the mirror. It was clear that we needed some direction. We had to take this more seriously, I mean our futures might depend upon it. And we were in the beauty department, this was no place to be fooling around. But Valentine's Day never really inspires spontaneous affection or true romance, it's all so commercial. Was I just disillusioned? As we meandered back to the car, masked under the guise of Chanel, a man dressed in black handed us each a single red rose.
The next morning, Valentines morning, the ice-cream van passed the house, playing its familiar and overly loud tune. But there was a different feel about it today. I glanced at the clock. He was early. Fifteen minutes early. I wondered how many men on the street would be abseiling out their bedroom windows, traversing ledges and walking the tightrope on telegraph cables, to reach him before he disappeared round the corner; asking for raspberry ripple or a 99 with a flake, so that they could stride heroically back to their women? Like the man from the milk tray adverts. And all because the lady loves...
That's it - I'm going to audition for the next advert - I want to be the hand that reaches for the mysterious card left on top of the box of chocolates.
