Friday 21st February 2020

The month of love is almost over. Feb is supposed to be the shortest month, but somehow this Feb feels like it’s dragging on almost as long as January did. Maybe because it’s a Leap Year and there’s an extra day to contend with, or maybe because the news, home and abroad, is so fucking depressing. The weather has been shite here in Blighty with high winds and lashing rain. The quasi mansion suffered some damage when Storm Ciara decided she didn’t like the look of some guttering and ripped it down, tossing it contemptuously into the back garden. Spiteful cow. We didn’t have chance to get it fixed before Storm Dennis roared in and started throwing his weight about, taking several slates off the garage roof. Still, compared to so many, we got off light. God, I can’t imagine how horrible it must be to find your lounge furniture floating around in several feet of muddy flood water.

On a more cheerful note, Valentine’s Day this year was magical, beautiful and perfect with a delivery of roses and handmade chocolates. There were romantic cards with loving messages. It was, how to explain, it was, how to put it, it was, well, it was - a fucking dream is what it was!  The actual real life affair was the same as usual with no flowers, no cards and not so much as a factory made bar of Cadbury’s never mind a box of handmade confections. The men folk are hardened against the event and nothing will change their minds. They point blank refuse to acknowledge it and are immune to my hints. Neither of them so much as blinked when I served VD breakfast wearing a cupid style nappy and a pair of paper wings while toting a toy bow and arrow set. They thanked me for breakfast, kissed me and left for work with ne’er so much a nod to amore. Cupid’s arrows are wasted on them. In fact Cupid could launch a fucking whale harpoon and it still wouldn’t make a dent in their unromantic hides.

I resorted to Valentine’s Day Plan B and bought myself flowers and lavish chocolates from the household budget along with a card from myself declaring undying love and affection for a very special person. Later, I caught Dick trying to purloin a violet cream from my box of chocs and put a sharp stop to it I can tell you. My VD chocs were NOT for sharing, thank you very much. They were mine and mine alone and if he wanted a violet cream he could go and buy his bloody own, because this romantic houseboy was not sharing his sugar love goodies with hardhearted unromantic partners. Dick sniffily declared me a greedy and ungracious little bastard, but otherwise kept his chocolate seeking mitts to himself. I ate the lot, and enjoyed every delicious morsel. Val’s Day doesn’t have to be a dead loss. If no bugger else makes it romantic for you then make it romantic for yourself. Psychologists and the like always go on about ‘loving oneself’ and what better day to start than Val’s Day. Get it on!

While we’re on the subject of VD, let me thank each and every one who sent kind VD messages my way. They were all much appreciated. The same right back at you.

Well, dear readers, I must away and do some stirring. I have a chilli con carne bubbling on the stove for tonight’s din-din and I don’t want it sticking to the bottom of the pan.

Ciao for now.


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