Poked my nose in this fridge this afternoon and what did I see? Mmmmmmm… chilled bottle of Moet & Chandon bought by Scotto for Valentine’s Day.
Nice!
Much better than a bunch of flowers, methinks. At least, unlike a bunch of flowers, I can share it with him.
It’s a moot point that Valentine’s Day is usually esteemed more highly in the female of the species’ diaries than of the males.
I can pretty much count on my nineteen year old son Hagar, shiftily snaking up to me later on this afternoon wanting to borrow money. He will have forgotten about Valentine’s Day, spent his pay packet already and need to buy his girlfriend something if he wants to keep in sweet with her.
I’ve already taken the cash out of my wallet and hidden it so I can cry poor when he comes-a-begging.
I must acknowledge there have been many forlorn and fruitless Valentine’s Days in the questionable history of my 'love life'.
There were many years when I would be the only poor mug to not have a gorgeous bouquet delivered to the work place and that was even when I had a boyfriend! I'd sit there gushing over all the bunches of roses sent to other girls with a face as green as the Granny Smith, Eve passed to Adam all those years ago.
I recall once, when I was about twenty-five and forlornly single, sitting on the veranda with my mother and twenty-two year old sister, Sam.
None of us had received any professions of admiration in the form of a floral arrangement and our optimistic anticipation was drying up. Sam and I (as it was five o’clock and the florists were about to knock off duty) were feeling a little depressed, deflated and disappointed.
Unexpectedly a car shunted noisily up the hill.
Was it coming to our house? Could it possibly be?
It parked in our driveway.
Oh my God! It had a florist sign on it! Who could this be for?
Butterflies in our tummies and nervous, superficial tittering ensued.
Like the two ugly step-sisters from Cinderella we effused,
“The flowers are probably for you, Mum!”
“They won’t be for me! "
"Probably just Dad sending you flowers, Mum!”
Neither of us really believing this to be true and hoping against all hell the single, perfect, glorious rose headed up the path was for one of us.
"Who could it be sending me love in a cylinder?" I mused. "A secret admirer perhaps?".
My fantasies ran away with my logic.
"Maybe it was that bloke from the service station I’d been eyeing off. But how would he know my address?... Actually how would he even know my name?"
No...
The cheesy, cheap-looking rose in a plastic cylinder was a delivery for our stupid brother Damo, who wasn’t even home to receive the object of devotion and was doubtless blissfully unaware it was Valentine’s Day.
The moral of the story?
A rose by any other name stinks.
None of us had received any professions of admiration in the form of a floral arrangement and our optimistic anticipation was drying up. Sam and I (as it was five o’clock and the florists were about to knock off duty) were feeling a little depressed, deflated and disappointed.
Unexpectedly a car shunted noisily up the hill.
Was it coming to our house? Could it possibly be?
It parked in our driveway.
Oh my God! It had a florist sign on it! Who could this be for?
Butterflies in our tummies and nervous, superficial tittering ensued.
Like the two ugly step-sisters from Cinderella we effused,
“The flowers are probably for you, Mum!”
“They won’t be for me! "
"Probably just Dad sending you flowers, Mum!”
Neither of us really believing this to be true and hoping against all hell the single, perfect, glorious rose headed up the path was for one of us.
"Who could it be sending me love in a cylinder?" I mused. "A secret admirer perhaps?".
My fantasies ran away with my logic.
"Maybe it was that bloke from the service station I’d been eyeing off. But how would he know my address?... Actually how would he even know my name?"
No...
The cheesy, cheap-looking rose in a plastic cylinder was a delivery for our stupid brother Damo, who wasn’t even home to receive the object of devotion and was doubtless blissfully unaware it was Valentine’s Day.
The moral of the story?
A rose by any other name stinks.
